


whispers like poetry

by extasiswings, madsthenerdygirl



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Season 1, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Feelings, Love Confessions, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Smut, There's a Lot of Sex in Here Considering Nobody is Talking about Feelings, Timeless Season 3 Project, alternate season 2, did we mention angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 11:30:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 90,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17161190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings, https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsthenerdygirl/pseuds/madsthenerdygirl
Summary: It wasn't supposed to happen in the first place. Lucy certainly never intended for it to keep happening once it did. And yet, somehow, at some point, she forgot why sleeping with Garcia Flynn was a bad idea.Maybe it never was. Maybe it was exactly what both of them needed.





	1. The World's Columbian Exposition

Lucy doesn’t look at Flynn as he closes the door of the hotel room behind them and pockets the key. He’s been freezing her out since they left 1780, leaving aside their interludes in his warehouse and on the street outside, and quite frankly, she’s sick of it. At first she was scared, but that has long since faded.

Angry. That’s what she is now. Because Flynn has no right, no right whatsoever to be pissed at her. 

_“Maybe I was wrong about this journal. Maybe I was wrong about you.”_

_“Maybe you’re wrong about a lot of things.”_

The silence drags on.

“You know, if you’re planning to just ignore me all night, you could have left me with your henchman again,” Lucy snaps finally.

“Karl is busy,” Flynn replies.

“And you aren’t? Am I supposed to be flattered that you’re taking the time to keep track of your hostage personally?”

“You can feel however you like, it’s no particular concern of mine.” 

“Oh, please.” Lucy pulls the pins out of her hair to let it down, rolling her head to work some of the tension out of her neck. “You really expect me to believe that’s it? You try to get me to help you for months despite the fact that I’ve gotten in your way every time, but _now_ I’m expendable?” 

“Everything’s changed.” Flynn tosses his hat aside, his jaw ticking as he rakes a hand through this hair. “If you hadn’t—”

“The _only_ thing that’s changed is that now I actually believe you about Rittenhouse,” she interrupts. Her arms cross as she faces him. “They’re real. I get that now. They need to be stopped. I get that, too—”

“Then why would you stop me?” Flynn shoots back, taking a step towards her. With his height, it closes the distance considerably. 

Lucy doesn’t move—if he wants to intimidate her, he’ll have to do far better than that. 

“Because there are better ways than that,” she replies. “You—we can do better than that.”

Flynn flinches almost imperceptibly and looks away.

_You’re a damn liar, Garcia Flynn_ , she thinks. 

Lucy takes a step forward and adds,“You should be thanking me.”

That gets him to look at her again. 

“Thanking you?” Flynn scoffs. “I should be _thanking_ you? For what, Lucy? This would have been over. Finished—”

“You don’t _know_ that,” Lucy points out for what feels like the hundredth time. Round and around in circles they go and she knows he knows she’s right, he wouldn’t be pushing back so hard if he didn’t, but she could _scream_ — “You think I should have let you kill a child, but for what? So you could hate yourself even more, sleep even less at night? _Fuck you_ , Flynn. If you want to believe you’re some sort of monster, go ahead, but I’m not going to apologize for saving what’s left of your humanity!”

A ringing silence follows as she realizes just how close she is to him—when had she gotten so close? Her blood rushes in her ears, her breath coming faster both from the proximity and her heightened emotions. She wants to shove him, she wants to slap him, she wants to shout at him more, until he gets it through his idiotic head that she might actually be willing to help him, but not like this. 

She’s just taken a breath to say exactly that when Flynn’s inscrutable mask cracks as he swears in a language she doesn’t know. And then, without question or pause, he’s kissing her. 

Kissing Wyatt in front of Bonnie and Clyde had been a surprise—soft and sweet and aching with possibilities—but it also wasn’t real. Play acting, a con, and her heart broke for him when she realized he was using his own reality to craft their story. 

Kissing Noah was strange, the disconnect too dissonant for her to want to follow the thread to completion when she kissed him with all the passion of a one-night stand and he returned it with something like love. 

There is no softness now, no sweetness, nothing like love—but neither is Flynn a stranger. They exist somewhere beyond convention, where she may not know his middle name or his favorite color, but she has glimpsed his soul.

Kissing Flynn is immolating. 

Perhaps Lucy should push him away. After all, adding another layer of complexity to their fraught relationship cannot possibly end well, no matter how pleasurable a distraction. And yet...it’s more than a kiss. It’s an apology, a thank you, everything Flynn is either too damn stubborn or too proud to admit with words pressed into her lips like a brand. 

She doesn’t push him away. 

Heat floods her as her hands take hold of his lapels and pull him harder against her. She bites his lip, laughs when he swears again, and loops her arms around his neck so he can lift her up. 

They kiss and kiss and kiss until Lucy is dizzy with it—she gets her mouth on Flynn’s jaw, his neck, his ear, marking him up until he slides a hand into her hair and pulls her back in to kiss him again. Her only regret is that the neckline of her dress comes up too high to allow him the same leeway. His touch burns even through the fabric—somehow she knew it would given their prior interactions—electricity searing the air in a train station in 1865, in Germany, in 1972, never pushing them to this but always leaving open the possibility. She’s imagined it more than once, woken up frustrated and more than a little pissed off, wet and aching and needy. 

Flynn could hate her. Lucy could hate him. But this isn’t hate. This is...she doesn’t know what it is. But she doesn’t want to stop. 

Her back hits the wall and Flynn breaks the kiss, looking dazed and wrecked in the best way. Assuming that nothing good whatsoever can come from giving him any opportunity to recover his senses, Lucy kisses him harder, her tongue sliding against his in a way that sends sparks bursting under her skin.

This really is a much, much more productive use of their time, and god it’s been so long and she wants—

“On your knees,” she breathes when the kiss breaks again. Flynn makes a sound that could be protest, but certainly doesn’t seem to be dismay, and Lucy grips his hair to pull his head back.

“On. Your. Knees,” she repeats, more command than breathless plea, although still close enough that her lips brush his with each word.

Flynn shudders. And then, to her slight amazement, he goes. 

Lucy curses the number of skirts she has on, obscuring the sight of Flynn between her legs even as they’re hiked up to her waist. She can’t see, and she wants to, a thrill moving down her spine at having a man like this under her power.

His lips muse against her knee, then travel up her thigh, all a feather-light tease. She can feel his smirk in the curve of his mouth against her skin, altogether far too pleased with himself for kissing her everywhere except where she wants him to. 

“Flynn—” 

His name has barely left her when he tugs her underwear aside and his tongue sweeps through her folds—Lucy gasps as her head falls back against the wall. Fuck.

She has no leverage in this position, nothing to hold onto but Flynn himself, having to trust him not to let her fall. One hand scrambles for his hair again as she bites off a moan—thin walls after all—fuck, she should have ordered him to his knees ages ago—

Flynn curls his tongue around her clit and sucks, his fingers trailing lower to tease at her entrance. She’s already close, the tension inside her winding tighter and tighter, and she nearly whines when he pulls his fingers away instead of filling her with them. 

“ _Flynn_ —” Lucy tugs at his hair and arches her hips. Like hell is she going to beg, but—

She gasps when he licks into the heart of her, her eyes falling shut as she gives herself over to sensation. Is this a terrible idea? Absolutely. But she can’t bring herself to care.

Flynn’s thumb sweeps over her clit and she shatters, crying out as she goes tense and then boneless, shivering as he doesn’t let up until she’s completely spent. 

Fuck.

Lucy pulls weakly at his hair, wanting him to come back up to her, wanting to kiss him, wanting everything—except Flynn pulls away. 

It’s careful enough that she doesn’t fall—although her knees aren’t the steadiest—but it’s still abrupt. Flynn is panting, his mouth wet, and his hand touches his lips as if he isn’t entirely clear what just happened. When Lucy reaches for him, he wrenches out of her grasp, swallowing hard as he looks away from her.

“I—” He starts, and then thinks better of whatever it was, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand. Then, he turns on his heel and walks out. 

Lucy sags against the wall, staring at the closed door. 

_Fuck_ , indeed.


	2. Karma Chameleon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are several ways she could answer this question, including with the truth, and yet the brilliant idea that pops into her head is, apparently, kiss him.
> 
> So she grabs him by his jacket and does just that.

For the first time in ages, Lucy feels truly alone.

Wyatt’s stolen the Lifeboat, and Rufus along with it—although nobody believes for one second that Rufus didn’t go of his own free will, the cameras show Wyatt had his gun on him—and now she’s got to talk to Anthony and sort out this latest mess, somehow, without even her usual backup.

Wyatt and Rufus have become the two closest friends she has, and she’s not sure what to do without them by her side. It’s definitely not, ah, normal, but even when she was with Flynn when he kidnapped her… she didn’t feel alone then. She finds herself, oddly, wishing Flynn was here right now. Anthony is—he’s unhinged, a nervous wreck, and for all of Flynn’s faults she’s never worried he’ll shoot her because his trigger finger spasmed.

She hates that she’s even saying this but fuck she trusts Flynn when he tells her things. Anthony is an unknown entity, Rufus’s friend, not hers, and she just—fuck she wants Flynn there to tell her his side of things because his side of things is the one that, terrifying as it is, is starting to make sense—

She tries to talk Anthony down, she really does. Tries to make sense of it all, because she’s a historian, that’s what she does, she searches for the truth of events, sifting through secondhand sources and biased personal accounts and census records and letters and diaries.

But fuck, Anthony plans to blow up the Mothership.

Fuck.

He leaves her and the room is still spinning. Was he telling the truth? How desperate is he, how desperate is Flynn, how is she supposed to make sense of this?

Lucy breathes deeply, calms herself, goes to exit—

And runs smack into Flynn.

It’s hard to say which of them is more startled, herself or the six foot four man currently clutching at the door handle like she genuinely managed to knock the wind out of him despite being a good foot shorter than he is.

“Lucy,” he says.

They, ah, haven’t really talked about—about what happened during the Chicago World’s Fair. Not that there’s anything to talk about.

Well there is the tiny fact that he went down on her and gave her an orgasm that—she wouldn’t call it toe-curling but—at least not to his _face_ she won’t because God knows the man doesn’t need another reason to be smug at her—and then they had the strangest not-date ever and then she convinced Houdini to handcuff him.

So really it’s not so much that there’s nothing to talk about as it is she isn’t sure what even happened or how to classify it and she most certainly doesn’t want to examine it. That opens an already partway open door and she’s got no intention of kicking it open any further.

Except that, well, Flynn’s wearing all black like he just finished a James Bond mission in the Alps and it’s a very fetching look on him and his hair looks rather soft and he’s clean shaven, which he decidedly was not when his stubble scraped up the inside of her thighs and he got his—

Focus, for the love of God, Lucy.

“Flynn,” she replies. Spectacular. “What are you doing here?”

“…I’m staying on the second floor,” Flynn replies, sounding too bewildered to lie. “What are you doing here?”

There are several ways she could answer this question, including with the truth, and yet the brilliant idea that pops into her head is, apparently, _kiss him_.

So she grabs him by his jacket and does just that.

Flynn… well the best word for it really is that he flails, for about ten seconds before his hands get a good grip on her coat and he hauls her to him and kisses her back. It’s as immolating as before, only now she has the benefit of 21st century clothing and there is no fabric getting in the way as Flynn kisses her neck. He is apparently either thinking the same thing or rather fond of the way she shudders when he does so because he just about goes to town and oh, yes, she’s going to need concealer for later.

Somehow she yanks at him, or he pushes at her, or both, and they stumble more inside and oh look there’s that table so conveniently there and she’s hoisted up onto it and dear _God_ if he stops doing that thing with his tongue in her mouth she will die, she’s pretty much convinced of that.

Last time Flynn kissed her it was an apology of sorts, but this time it’s like he’s starving, like he’s been held back by miles and miles of rope and chains and they’ve all been cut free at once and he can touch her like he’s been straining for. She manages to get her hands under his layers—she can’t see his muscles but he feels wonderfully firm and what she wouldn’t give to be doing this in the shower or a proper bedroom—and he shoves her coat down and then his hands are in her pants and oh, okay, this is how they’re doing it today.

She has a moment to be disappointed that it’s not Flynn’s mouth on her, but it only takes two seconds before she learns that his fingers are just as dexterous and perfectly serviceable—more than serviceable. Flynn’s other arm is a band of iron around her back, his thighs keeping her legs spread, and they’re not so much kissing as they are panting into each other’s mouths. She hasn’t felt this dirty, this thrilled, this alive since undergrad when she was going to quit college and join a band.

Flynn, like before, seems to be getting a kick out of taking her to the brink and then drawing her back, his fingers not simply working her but working her open, like he’s seriously thinking about fucking her properly after this, and Lucy just about loses her mind at the thought. They’ve already taken this farther than they should, so really, what’s it matter which appendage he’s putting in her at this point? She’s got every faith that he’ll use it as well as he’s using his hand right this moment.

…it occurs to her she might have lost touch with sanity, if only for a little while.

She claws at him, bites out his name as he rubs at her clit, completely destroys her underwear, as his eyes go from green-brown-gray to absolutely black. She’s giving him a show and she knows it, her voice raw, her hips writhing up without rhythm or thought, her legs wantonly hooked around his thighs now, but she doesn’t care, she doesn’t _care_ , she’s giddy with the lack of caring, she doesn’t have to think or plan or anything and he’s taking care of her and she doesn’t have to take care at all—

Flynn growls in a very satisfied sort of way as she comes, and thank the Lord she has a coat on to hide whatever state her pants are in now. He considerately—gently, even—holds her as she shakes and whines her way through her orgasm. She feels like he’s reached into the heart of her and yanked her inside out.

The worst (best) part of it all is that she can’t say she minds.

Flynn carefully sets her back on her feet, helps her get her coat back on. He is, in other words, a gentleman about it.

And then he says, “Do you really expect me to believe that you found out where I live and came here just for that?”

She swallows. She’d almost forgotten about Anthony Bruhl, which is rather unfair of her, but in her defense it was a rather good orgasm. “And what if I did?” she challenges.

Flynn raises an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware that was your form of currency now, Lucy.”

She hates (loves) how he says her name. “I can keep a secret. You’ll clear out of here now anyway, since I know.”

Flynn regards her for a moment. She is honestly terrified that he will drag her before his various minions right here and now. Not that she’s terrified for herself—she realized, sometime during when he kidnapped her, that she is quite safe with him even if those around her aren’t—but for Anthony, or whatever henchman Flynn thinks is responsible for the intelligence leak.

“You’ve gotten plenty over on us,” she adds. “Am I not allowed to get one over on you for once? I know where you are. I’m here. You know that I know, we’ve had—we—and now we’re even.”

“Even.” Flynn looks like he’s rapidly swinging back and forth between amused and irritated. “If you’d like to call it that.”

He steps back and gives an exaggerated bow and a sweep of his arm towards the door. “After you, then.”

She would curtsy, but she’s trying not to move in certain ways at the moment. Her legs aren’t quite back to working order. Instead she just nods at him, like some kind of idiot, and walks out the door.

She’s careful not to look back, so she has no idea what his face looks like when he closes the door behind her. She’s not sure she wants to know.

“Do you think Bruhl was telling the truth?” Denise asks her later.

She’s probably putting Lucy’s breathlessness down to Anthony basically kidnapping her, but Lucy’s legs still tingle, and her underwear is starting to get uncomfortable, and her mouth aches and she’s satisfied and yet not nearly satisfied enough.

It doesn’t escape her that she had Flynn in her hands, literally, she could have done anything with that, and she let him finger her on a table and let him go. Denise would have her head if she knew. Forget Wyatt’s insubordination, this is stupidity of the highest order.

And yet, it feels like the most clear-headed thing she’s done in ages.

Then Flynn shoots Anthony.

And it all goes to shit again.


	3. The Lost Generation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lost generation, stripped of every last shred of innocence by violence, by loss, by grief. They are, all of them, lost. Even Flynn. Maybe especially Flynn. But Flynn is the type that Josephine described—battered, broken, bruised, yet still fighting. Lucy is the one adrift, the ground shifting constantly beneath her, quicksand instead of concrete. 
> 
> She wants stability again, even if only for a moment, and Flynn—Flynn can give her that.

When Flynn’s henchman grabs her in 1927, Lucy’s first thought is that she should probably be more upset than she is. Which isn’t to say she’s _not_ upset, because there’s a certain amount of righteous indignation that comes with being taken by the arm and hauled off like an unruly child. But at the same time, she can’t help feeling grateful for the excuse to see Flynn. To talk to him alone. To maybe—

She cuts that thought off immediately. 

(Once is an accident. Twice is a coincidence. Three times...three times would be a pattern, and she really shouldn’t want it to be one.)

Answers. That’s what she needs from him. Answers. Nothing more.

The henchman—Karl? Is that his name?—tightens his grip on her forearm and Lucy hisses. 

“Let go of—“ Flynn comes into view and she might be relieved if she were less annoyed. “Tell him to let me go!”

“Let her go—she’s not a prisoner,” Flynn sighs, looking for all the world like he deeply regrets the fact that he can’t do everything himself. Karl does loosen his grip then, and Lucy yanks her arm back. 

The next moment, he’s gone, stalking off to god only knows where, and then she’s alone with Flynn. 

It’s what she wanted, and yet—

She doesn’t know what hat to think, how to feel, what to say. Anger is easiest, so she runs with that—she’s used to being pissed at Flynn by this point. She may as well fall back on the familiar. 

“You knew, didn’t you?” Lucy says. “That’s why, at the Hindenburg, you told me to ask them about Rittenhouse and ask them why they chose me.”

Flynn just looks at her like he’s waiting for the rest of the question. 

“If you knew who my real father was all along, why didn’t you just tell me?” 

“You needed to see with your own eyes who they are,” Flynn explains, and god, she hates how calm he is, how quiet, how controlled, when she feels like she’s coming apart at the seams. “You needed to see why you’re going to fight them.” 

Lucy laughs bitterly. “That’s right. Because everybody knows my future except me.”

_You’ll come around like we all did. Because it’s who you are. It’s your legacy._

_You are going to help me...That’s not a threat, it’s your future._

Two choices, but neither feel like _hers_. The choice she wants is one that would lead her back to where she was before all of this, that would let her forget she ever heard the name Rittenhouse. 

_Rittenhouse isn’t a choice. It’s blood._

(If that’s the case, Lucy wants to tear it out of herself.)

“Would you have believed me?” Flynn asks, stepping closer. “I’ve told you a lot of things, after all, and you’ve fought me on every one. If I had told you the man you thought was your father actually wasn’t, if I had told you your real father was Rittenhouse...would you have believed me?”

Lucy swallows hard and looks away. No. 

“That’s what I thought,” he says. 

She should ask about Lindbergh. Theoretically, that’s why she’s here. But what comes out instead is—

“You killed Anthony.” It’s not a question. 

“And you weren’t there to see me that day,” Flynn replies. It isn’t a question either. 

“You kissed me anyway.”

It’s Flynn’s turn to look away, something like shame flickering across his face. 

“Why?” Lucy asks. “You’ve known this entire time that my father is—that _I_ apparently am everything you hate. So why—why kiss me? Why try so hard to convince me that you’re right? If I’m Rittenhouse—“

“You’re not,” Flynn interrupts. “That’s the point. It’s a choice, Lucy. You can choose differently. You _do_ choose differently.”

_It’s your legacy._

_Fuck legacy_ , Lucy thinks, and then she takes hold of Flynn’s jacket and pulls him down to kiss her.

The lost generation, stripped of every last shred of innocence by violence, by loss, by grief. They are, all of them, lost. Even Flynn. Maybe especially Flynn. But Flynn is the type that Josephine described—battered, broken, bruised, yet still fighting. Lucy is the one adrift, the ground shifting constantly beneath her, quicksand instead of concrete. 

She wants stability again, even if only for a moment, and Flynn—Flynn can give her that.

He is not concrete, but he’s solid and warm and real as her hands slide over his chest, one of his arms wrapping around her waist to pull her closer. It’s softer than their previous kisses, uncertainty in the lines of his body, in the way his free hand cups her cheek. This is a kiss intended to soothe, not devastate, and Lucy can hardly bear it. 

She makes a desperate noise against his lips and twists her fingers in his turtleneck, hauling herself up against him as close as she can get by stretching on her toes. Blessedly, Flynn takes the hint and lifts her up so she can kiss him more easily, walking them until her back hits cool stone, letting her lick into his mouth and push the kiss from soft into something fiercer, hotter, more filthy than sweet. 

(His hands are still soft though—one trails up, caressing her waist and moving higher, his thumb tentatively brushing the underside of her breast until she covers his hand with hers and shifts it to cup her fully.)

_Maybe we let Flynn torch history_ , she said earlier. And she meant it. Maybe they should let him blow it up. Let him raze Rittenhouse to the ground and salt the earth after. And if she’s Rittenhouse, if that is in her—Lucy kisses him harder, gasping when he adjusts his grip and presses her more solidly against the wall—let him set her ablaze as well.

Flynn rucks her dress up to her waist and gets a hand between her thighs. Lucy digs her nails into his shoulders as he strokes her through her underwear, too much and not enough all at once. She wants, she wants, she wants—wants to be touched, to feel loved, to be fucked, to be safe, to forget everything but her own name—contradictions upon contradictions.

“Flynn, please—“

He kisses her and slips two fingers into her, stealing her breath, making her ache—but it’s still not enough. She thinks about the way he touched her a few days ago, the way she wondered if he might fuck her after. She wants that now, wants him inside her, wants to take everything he can give and let her Rittenhouse heritage be horrified and revel in it. She wants. 

Lucy reaches down and palms Flynn through his pants, making him stutter against her. God, he’s hard, and she’s wet, and it has really been far too long since she did this, she could have imagined something classier than against a wall in 1927, but she can’t bring herself to care. She bites his lip, then pulls away. 

“Fuck me.” 

Flynn shivers the same way he had in 1893, closing his eyes as if even looking at her might be too much in the moment. But instead of kissing her again, or touching her, or unzipping his pants, what he says instead is—

“No.”

It’s as if she’s been dashed with ice water. Her stomach drops at the rejection, vulnerability making her skin crawl. 

“No?” Lucy echoes, and Flynn pulls away, setting her back on her feet more gently than she would have expected. “What, you’ll finger me on a table and eat me out against a wall, but fucking me is a bridge too far?”

Hurt prickles over her, making her feel cracked, brittle. She shouldn’t care. Flynn isn’t her husband or her boyfriend or even her friend. He isn’t her anything, not really. She shouldn’t care. 

“If it’s like this, yes,” Flynn replies. “I can’t—not like this.”

“Like what?”

“Not when you’re only doing it to prove a point.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything to you,” Lucy snaps. 

“Not to me,” Flynn says. “To yourself.”

_You can choose differently._

Lucy straightens out her dress, trying to ignore the tightness in her chest, pushing down the voice arguing that wasn’t the only reason. And then, because she does have a job to do, she changes the subject. 

“Where is Charles Lindbergh?” She asks, and Flynn’s mask settles again. They’re familiar with these steps, know how to play their parts. Polite indifference, mild antagonism, some sarcasm for spice perhaps. She asks him not to kill a man, he doesn’t see why he shouldn’t—around and around and around they go. Simple. Easy. 

(His mouth on hers, his hands under her skirt, the fact that she wants him, the fact that more and more she’s starting to think he’s right after all—those things are not simple. Those things are messy and complicated and liable to get her tossed into the same black government hole as Wyatt. So...better not to think about them.)

“You really think you can change his mind?” Flynn asks when Lucy suggests talking Lindbergh out of siding with Rittenhouse. 

“You were the one who was all about it being a choice earlier,” she shoots back. “I think it’s worth trying.”

“Then by all means, be my guest.”

Later, when Lucy gets home and pulls out a book on Lindbergh, when she reads that she changed nothing, that he became the same horrible, hateful person he always was—

She doesn’t throw the book, but it’s a near thing. 

She also deliberately does not think about Garcia Flynn.


	4. The Red Scare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not enough, not remotely enough, Lucy knows that. But there’s nothing else she can do, nothing else to say—she’s just as helpless. 
> 
> And then, like he was never there at all, he’s gone.

There was always going to be another reckoning. Lucy knew after she stopped Flynn in 1780 that he would try to find some other solution, some other one-stop mission that would solve everything instead of continuing on piecemeal, taking out one Rittenhouse member at a time. He’s nothing if not efficient, after all. And a Rittenhouse summit is the perfect opportunity. All of them in one place—how could anyone resist? 

Lucy stands still and prim as a statue in the conference room she’s shuffled into after she and Wyatt are grabbed. She doesn’t think the door is locked, but she doesn’t try to leave either. Instead, she waits. And sure enough, after a few minutes, Flynn walks in. 

A reckoning. 

Lucy listens to what he has to say, seeing through the flippant air. He forgets that she’s seen him at his lowest, seen his struggles, seen his tears—she’s no more fooled by him now than she was when he called her expendable. 

“Why are you telling me this?” Lucy asks. He’s laid out his plan, explained he’s going to kill her grandfather, and for what? 

“I thought you deserved the truth,” Flynn replies. But he doesn’t look at her. Of course he doesn’t. Some lies are just too difficult. 

“So you told me. What do you want from me, my blessing?”

“I don’t want anything from you—“

Lucy almost laughs. Because he still can’t meet her eyes and she isn’t sure who he’s trying to convince more—her or himself. 

“You don’t want anything from me?” She repeats. “Because I think you do. I think deep down, there’s some part, some human part of you that wants me to stop you.”

Flynn flinches almost imperceptibly, and she barrels forward, venting her own frustration as much as refusing to give him a chance to get a word in. 

“God I swear this game that we keep playing—nobody wins, nobody loses, people keep dying—what’s the body count so far, and for what?” 

_You think I sleep at night?_

_What kind of husband or father could I be after what I’ve done?_

She’s sure he could probably give her a number, a thorough accounting of all his sins. For all that Wyatt thinks Flynn is mad, rabid, a psychopath, whatever he wants to call it, Lucy knows that isn’t true. Because someone who was truly wild, truly mindless and violent and dangerous, wouldn’t care about the things he’s done. If that were the case, Flynn would sleep just fine. 

“Oh, then now’s the time where you tell me what a monster I am?” He asks. Baiting her. Wanting to hear it, maybe even needing her to condemn him the way he’s already condemned himself. To say that yes, he’s a monster, he’s not worth saving, she’s given up on him. 

Lucy refuses to say it. Not only because it isn’t true, but because she’s contrary enough that she’s not going to prove him right. She’s not going to give up when it’s what he wants. 

“I don’t think you’re a monster anymore,” she says instead. “I used to. But now I just think that you’re sad. And you’re lonely. I think you’re a broken person who misses the people they love. Just like me. Just like Wyatt.”

That’s what the others haven’t understood. That’s what even Wyatt hasn’t understood. They’re all the same. There is no moral high ground. Not a single one of them has lost someone and sat back and moved on. They’ve all been willing to do whatever it took. 

Besides which, this isn’t just about family. It’s a war. And Flynn has been alone on his side of it for too long. 

“You want to stop Rittenhouse, we’ll help you,” Lucy promises. “But not like this.”

Flynn takes a step forward, leaning into her space. 

“How?”

And Lucy wants to give him an answer. She does. She wants to hand him a solution that would keep him from this path he’s on. 

Except...she doesn’t have one. Her mind is blank. She has nothing. And Flynn knows it, his face dropping as though he’s lost the last piece of hope he had. 

“You don’t know,” he says. “Because there is no other way.”

Flynn’s eyes drop to her lips, and for a moment Lucy thinks he might kiss her. She wants him to. She shouldn’t. She does anyway. 

But he doesn’t. Instead, he straightens up, wets his lips—

“Goodbye, Lucy.” 

No. No. Her chest aches as Flynn steps back, everything in her screaming at her to stop him. Not because killing is wrong or whatever reasoning Wyatt and Denise have for saying Flynn is evil—Lucy’s said enough times that she doesn’t think he’s wrong—but because he so clearly doesn’t want to do this. He came here so she could give him a solution that didn’t involve death and destruction and more blood on his hands, and she—it feels like she’s failed him. Not that his choices are her responsibility—they aren’t—but they’ve all spent so much time trying to stop Flynn without bothering to care about actually stopping Rittenhouse and maybe if she’d thought more about the latter—

“Wait.” 

Flynn stops and looks back at her, for once not bothering to force his mask back up. He looks exhausted, run-down, teetering on the edge. 

Broken. He looks broken. And it breaks her, too. 

There’s nothing more for either of them to say. She can’t fix this and he knows it now. But she can’t let him leave either, not like that, not with all of that as their last exchange. 

So Lucy does the only thing she can. 

She kisses him. 

It’s not like any of their previous encounters—she’s never been so careful with him before. In 1927 she thought he was the solid one, but now their positions seem to have reversed. He’s falling apart and she’s...well, she’s hardly stable but her ground at least isn’t shaking at the moment. 

Flynn kisses her with a quiet desperation—softer than their first time, but with the same edge of apology. His fingers tremble like he isn’t sure he’s allowed to touch her, only settling when Lucy takes his hands and tugs him back with her to the conference table. It’s easy to hop up on the edge, to pull up her skirt enough that she isn’t so constricted, to hook her ankles behind his thighs to keep him close. Because she needs Flynn close. 

_Forgive me_ , his kisses say, trailing over her jaw, down her neck to the open collar of her dress. Lucy’s eyes blur, so she closes them, curling her fingers into Flynn’s hair so she can guide his mouth back to hers. 

_I do._

The other times they’ve done this have been rushed and messy, passions flaring hot, wild, out of control. This is different—the build slower, a smolder rather than a blaze, and something else, something raw and fragile that makes her afraid to press too hard. But there’s still want as well, need pulsing between her thighs. 

Flynn’s hands slide up under her skirt, heavy and warm against her as he toys with the top of her stockings. The room is a haze of blue, quiet, dreamlike—Lucy wants to stay in it, to stay like this, with Flynn. If they don’t leave this room, there’s no Rittenhouse summit, no death, no guilt. Here, there is only softness and pleasure and them. 

“Touch me,” she murmurs between kisses. Flynn turns to her neck again, dragging his teeth lightly over her pulse point. Lucy shivers. 

“Flynn—“ He pulls away enough to sink to his knees and Lucy grips the edge of the table. This, then, is like the first time, except softer. Slower. Flynn kisses her inner thighs, sucks a mark into her delicate skin—his hands don’t stop caressing her legs, her hips, and when he finally sets his mouth to her center through her underwear, Lucy nearly sobs. 

It feels like worship. 

Flynn kisses her through the fabric, then pulls her underwear aside and delves his tongue into her as she squirms and arches against him. Her toes curl, her thighs shake, and god, fuck, she can’t make too much noise when the door isn’t locked, but she wants to, wants to moan, to sob, to scream—

Lucy bites her lip nearly hard enough to bleed when she comes, shivering and shaking with her fingers in his hair. Flynn makes a very self-satisfied noise against her thigh, but doesn’t pull away—instead, he gets his fingers in her, not letting her come down from the high, building her up even more. 

“You can’t make things up to me by getting me off, you know,” she says, gasping when his fingers curl into just the right spot. 

“It’s not about that,” Flynn replies, and Lucy wants to press, to ask what it is about then, to ask why he ever kissed her in the first place, what they’re doing, why she doesn’t want to ever stop, but pleasure spikes hot and sharp inside her and it steals the words from her throat. 

She comes again with his tongue on her clit, keening softly. She’s wrecked, ruined, turned inside out and upside down and every which way, utterly lost, but then Flynn gets up and kisses her and oh, yes, there’s the North Star. 

Lucy knows she can’t keep him, knows she can’t talk him out of his plans, but she wants him to hold her anyway. She wants him closer, wants to brand the memory of herself into his skin, wants to never let go. Which is why she reaches for Flynn’s belt, hooking her fingers into it as her legs spread wider. 

“Lucy—“

“Please,” she sighs, kissing him once, twice, anything to cut off another denial. But it doesn’t work. Flynn pulls back, catching her hand and bringing it to his lips instead. 

“I don’t have—“ He clears his throat and looks down, surprisingly shy. 

_Oh_. Lucy flushes and bites her lip, smoothing his tie with her free hand. She could say she doesn’t care—at the moment, she doesn’t particularly—but she can understand why he would, especially now, with family on his mind. Her chest aches for reasons she doesn’t understand. 

She thinks, oddly, of Noah. _Is this about that guy?_ He’d meant Wyatt and that was fine, a logical leap, but while there may be the beginnings of something there, this is what has her tangled up in knots. Flynn getting on his knees for her, Flynn touching her like she’s something precious, Flynn looking to her to throw him a lifeline. She doesn’t know what that means—maybe she’s just a stand-in. He can’t have his wife, so he’s turning to the closest similarly situated warm body. But that doesn’t fit either. 

Flynn kisses her once more, and then steps back completely. 

“I have to go,” he says. 

“You don’t have to,” Lucy replies. “We have a time machine, we can figure something else out. It doesn’t have to be this way.” 

_You have a choice right now._

Flynn smiles sadly and shakes his head. 

“Goodbye, Lucy,” he says again. And this time there’s no hope of calling him back. The door shuts behind him, leaving her on the table, her legs still shaky. She doesn’t think about why she feels like crying. That way lies madness.

* * *

As it turns out, Lucy does figure out another way, just in time. Some people don’t understand—she knows Wyatt wasn’t terribly pleased with her for throwing herself in his way when he finally, finally had a clean shot on Flynn, Denise didn’t understand why she would willingly go with Flynn in the mothership after everything he did—but she doesn’t care about that. She cares about the devastation that had been on Flynn’s face in that cellar. She cares about bringing Amy back. She cares about the fact that none of their hands are clean. 

And so, she finds the names of the people who killed his family and puts them on a flash drive. A hit list. And then she goes to meet Flynn. 

Lucy can’t stop touching the drive in her coat pocket as she waits for him to show. She knows some of what will happen when she gives it to him—he’ll go on one more mission, his family will never have died. He’ll have everything he wanted. 

But there’s more that she doesn’t know. Things like—will he stay with them despite what he said in 1780? Will she remember him if she’s back in the present when everything changes? Or will her life go back to what it was—safe, boring, predictable. 

(A few weeks ago, that was all she wanted. But what was it she said to Noah? _I will never be that person._ She meant it. She can’t go back.)

She doesn’t want to forget. She doesn’t want to forget him. 

But she can’t ask to go with him either. Not for this. Not for something so personal. He wouldn’t want her there anyway, she’s sure. Whatever this is between them it couldn’t be worth enough to him for that. 

(Although—when he dropped her off in the present, she thought for a moment that he might kiss her again. But Emma had been there, watching them with suspicion, and he hadn’t.) 

“You alone?” 

Lucy turns and sees Flynn, once more in a suit of all things, but looking lighter, easier than he’s seemed for their entire acquaintance. It’s almost over. She should be feeling lighter, too. 

“I said I would be,” she replies. 

“Do you have it?”

She pulls out the flash drive, hands it to him. Her stomach drops. That’s it. It’s over. Done. And not just adventures through time, not just getting shot at and meeting historical figures, not just desperate clawing hookups in inconvenient places. There’s something more with them. That feeling of being understood without needing to say anything, being seen, being known. Terrifying and consuming and incredible. 

That’s done, too. She won’t get it back. 

“I almost forget,” Flynn says, reaching into his pocket. “This is for you.”

The journal. Her journal, theoretically. The one he’s guarded like a sacred talisman. And he’s giving it away. 

“I won’t be needing it anymore.”

That, more than anything, makes her eyes sting, and Lucy looks down at the journal and swallows hard instead of looking in his eyes. 

No, of course he won’t. Of course he would want her to have it. If it’s hers, it’s only fair. Even if it’s the only piece of her he had. 

“You know, you never told me where you got it from,” Lucy points out, knowing it’s just a stopgap, that she can’t hold him here just as she couldn’t hold him in that conference room. But she can stretch this another minute, or maybe three, or five. 

“You gave it to me,” Flynn replies, wetting his lips with a secret smile that does dangerous things to her heart. It makes no sense, but then neither does anything where time travel is concerned. 

“No, I didn’t.”

“Not yet. But take it from me—you age surprisingly well.” 

There are so many things Lucy wants to do—she wants to ask questions until his answers make sense, she wants to tell him to come back, she wants to kiss him just one more time—

“On your knees!”

—she doesn’t get to do any of that. 

Horror chills her blood as soldiers storm the area, as she whips around to see Denise. 

“You followed me?” Betrayal makes the words stick in her throat like glass. 

“He’s a terrorist, Lucy. Think about what he’s done.”

“Think about what _we’ve_ done,” Lucy hisses, and turns back to Flynn. 

No, this isn’t what was supposed to happen, this isn’t how this was meant to go. She is not Delilah, and yet Samson is in chains nevertheless. Powerless. Brought low. 

It’s her fault. It’s not, but it is. She could have planned for this—she knew Denise wasn’t likely to just let Flynn go. She could have been more careful. 

“I trusted you, Lucy,” Flynn says, and it’s the deepest cut he could have dealt. “I trusted you with my family. I trusted you with my _child_.”

“I’m sorry!” 

It’s not enough, not remotely enough, Lucy knows that. But there’s nothing else she can do, nothing else to say—she’s just as helpless. 

And then, like he was never there at all, he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I thought this was going to all just be shameless smut? Remember when I refused to write Flynn POV because I knew he would ruin me with feelings and I thought Lucy would be safer? Hahahaha *sobs*
> 
> I _hate_ them.


	5. The Darlington 500

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No offense, Lucy, but… you’ve looked better.”
> 
> She stares at him with this determined gleam in her eyes, this darkness that he understands and hates for understanding, and arches an eyebrow as if to say is that the best you can do?
> 
> …in retrospect, maybe he could’ve come up with a better insult. Something that didn’t sound suspiciously like, ‘you only look half as pretty as you normally do’.

Flynn is well aware that he’s what you might call a sucker.

It never even occurred to him that Christopher would have Lucy followed. For a few days, he even thought that Lucy had been in on it.

He’d trusted her. He’d believed in her. He’d…

Well.

It’s not like you can exactly call up the woman you were fighting a war against, and then sort of fighting a war with, and giving orgasms to in the meantime, and ask if she wants to get coffee with you. But he’d hoped… after he took care of the men who got his family, after he held true to his promise to make sure they were safe and then didn’t go back, he’d thought…

Doesn’t matter whatever stupid thing he thought or hoped. He’s fairly sure now, from the way Lucy rounded on Christopher, that she didn’t plan to turn him in. And he’s willing to accept that it was fifty percent his fault. He was so desperate to see her again, to talk with her, he didn’t take any of his usual precautions. Lucy’s still so new at this, following her must’ve been like picking up the trail of a drunk moose.

Still. He trusted her, and now he’ll never get his family back.

A few days after he’s thrown into the government’s favorite hole, Christopher comes to interrogate him. The first question out of her mouth isn’t the one he expects.

“Did you know Carol Preston was Rittenhouse?”

Flynn stares at her. “Carol… Preston? Lucy’s mother?” His stomach just about drops to the floor.

“Yes.”

“Is Lucy all right.” Fuck, he’s showing his hand, and he knows it when Christopher raises an eyebrow.

“No, as a matter of fact. She was taken.” Christopher shows him some photographs from the Preston house—signs of a struggle.

Anger flares in him, and for a wild moment he wonders if Lucy is Rittenhouse, if she was this whole time, if she played him—but then he remembers the way she touched him, kissed him in the conference room, the way she asked him to touch her like she was ashamed to ask anything of him, the way she told him, _what if He led you to me?_

Nobody can possibly be that good of an actress, can they?

“Does anyone know where she is?”

“We’re working on it.”

“You’re working on it? It’s been how many days, Agent Christopher. You and I both know how time works against you in situations like that.”

What are they doing to her, how are they hurting her, what lies are they feeding her?

Christopher takes back the photos. “I’ve told you all that I know. I can keep you updated on our search for her. If you tell me what you know.”

Flynn grits his teeth. It’s a low blow, but if he were in her shoes, he’d probably say the same thing. Whatever it takes to get the man to talk.

“Fine.”

When he finds out weeks and weeks later that Lucy’s safe, that Rittenhouse tried to indoctrinate her but Rufus and Wyatt got her back, it feels like the bones in his legs vanish and it’s a good thing he’s sitting down. That’s when he tells Christopher, “I’ll only talk to Lucy.”

He tells himself it’s because they have a score to settle. Because he wants to look in the eyes of the woman who betrayed him.

But partly he suspects it’s because he just wants to make sure she’s really safe again.

 

* * *

 

He’s told that he’ll have a visitor, so play nice. As if he hasn’t been anything but a model prisoner this whole time. He didn’t start that fight in the shower. Or the one in the lunchroom. Or the one in the gym.

What? He didn’t. He just… finished them.

Christopher appears in the door to his cell, guards flanking on either side. He’s handcuffed, what do they think he’s going to do, some fancy judo move?

“I told you,” he says. “I’ll only talk to Lucy.”

Christopher gives him a look that says she is not being paid enough for this, and then she steps aside.

And Lucy comes around the corner.

His breath catches. She looks… well, like she always looks, thick dark hair and sharp cheekbones and soft skin. But she also looks… haunted. Bitter. The edges of her sharpened into points.

Whatever Rittenhouse did to her, he wants to strangle them for it. For taking that softness away from her.

“No offense, Lucy, but… you’ve looked better.”

She stares at him with this determined gleam in her eyes, this darkness that he understands and hates for understanding, and arches an eyebrow as if to say _is that the best you can do?_

…in retrospect, maybe he could’ve come up with a better insult. Something that didn’t sound suspiciously like, ‘you only look half as pretty as you normally do’.

He gestures for her to sit at the small metal sort-of chair that sticks out of the wall. Lucy does so, still staring at him. He has no idea what she’s thinking and that kind of scares him.

“Rittenhouse has gone to South Caroline, 1955,” Christopher says. “Any idea why?”

He ignores her and looks at Lucy. “Maybe you should ask your mother for help.”

Lucy shoots Christopher a look of—not just anger, but weary betrayal. Like she’s grown used to people doing things behind her back.

“It came up during our interrogation,” Christopher explains, only a touch of remorse in her voice.

“You never suspected she was Rittenhouse? Your own mother?” It was never in the journal.

Lucy swallows. “Are you going to tell us what they’re doing in South Carolina or not?”

“Well maybe if you get me out of here, then maybe we can talk.”

“You know that’s impossible,” Christopher says.

He really hates that she’s still standing here. “Well then it’s impossible for me to help.”

“I want to finish what we started,” Lucy says. There’s a dangerous edge to her voice, like a ragged edge of pain that she’s trying too hard to stuff down, to coat with anger. “I want to take down Rittenhouse for good.”

“Oh, please, you stopped me from taking down Rittenhouse over and over again.” He feels he has a right to point that out.

“Not anymore.” Lucy swallows again. “I’ll do whatever it takes now.”

He hates her, he hates this whole situation, he hates that he doesn’t hate her at all, not even a little bit. “What, you’re going to kill your own mother? Your hero, who secretly groomed you, programmed you since you were a child to become one of them? And you blindly obeyed your whole life, begging for her approval like a lap dog. I’m sorry Lucy but it just doesn’t inspire confidence.”

Lucy stares at him for a moment, then says—without even looking at Christopher, “Leave us.”

Flynn and Christopher are, for once, united as they openly stare at her. “I’m sorry, what?” Christopher says, completely wrong-footed.

Lucy looks up at her. “Please give me a few minutes alone.”

“Ma’am,” one of the guards says, “I really wouldn’t…”

“He won’t hurt me,” Lucy says. She looks over at Flynn, and he feels his heart twisting and he hates that he can feel that, hates how soft he feels around her. How vulnerable. His belly exposed. “Will you?”

He swallows a couple of times, his throat dry. “No.”

Lucy nods at Christopher, who steps back and nods at the guards.

One of the guards leans in and closes the door. “He gives you any trouble you just make some noise and we’ll come running.”

“I’m still fascinated by what damage you think I could do with these on.” Flynn shakes his wrists. These bastards have taken his family and his dignity, sass is the only thing left to him.

The guard rolls his eyes—Flynn has privately dubbed him Tweedledee—and then he’s clomping off after Christopher and his compatriot.

Lucy leans forward. “Garcia.”

He glares at her. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to act like—”

“Flynn.” Lucy brings her hand up to brush it through her hair, hits the hat, pauses, takes the hat off.

“I see Christopher went for the Marvel film disguise for you. Classy.”

Lucy glares at him, her mouth twitching in a way that he might dare to call fond. “I didn’t know that Christopher was following me, I didn’t know and I should’ve thought about it, I should’ve done more.”

Her hands are shaking. Barely, but still.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“No, it…” Lucy shakes her head, and then she’s moving across the tiny cell and climbing into his lap and Flynn can’t—his hands are literally tied here he—but Lucy’s literally straddling him and she’s taking his face in her hands and kissing him.

It’s like she’s pouring molten lava into his mouth, down his throat, and it’s ferocious and nothing at all like their last kiss but at the same time nothing like their first—the anger is there, the desperation, but there’s layers and layers beneath it that hadn’t been there when he’d first had the disastrous idea to make up for kidnapping her by eating her out.

He gets his hands up between them, his fingertips at her jaw, and gently pushes her away. She smells like heaven, like fresh air, and he wants so very badly—

But he can’t.

“Lucy. What are you doing?”

“Reminding you.” Her voice is a choked whisper. “What it is to be human. This place—makes you forget, and I’m—I’m here now.”

She doesn’t say it but he thinks of Rittenhouse, of what she must have endured with them. He wants to… to soothe her, somehow, but he doesn’t know where to even begin.

Lucy kisses him again. “Let me,” she whispers.

He wants to ask her what she wants him to let her do, but then she’s sliding away, down to her knees, she’s pulling her hair back into a ponytail—

He jerks back. “Lucy.”

She puts her hands on his knees, looks up at him. “Let me, Flynn, please.” Her hands slide up his thighs and fuck, fuck, he’s only human and he hasn’t even been properly touched this whole time, not even a friendly handshake or hug, and so of course he’s reacting as she pushes his legs open but she’s not herself—he shouldn't ask this of her—

“This isn’t…”

She gets her hands on his waistband and tugs insistently. “How many times did you get me off? And you won’t let me blow you once.”

What is this, her… her repayment? Does she think that she has to do this, that she owes him? He wants, he wants so badly he can hardly breathe, but is this really what she wants?

“Lucy, this isn’t some kind of—”

Lucy kisses him again, and his mouth was open on a word so her tongue slides right in, sucking and tugging on his lips, and while he’s distracted she manages to shove his pants down and then she’s pulling away and nipping at his thigh and his brain just about crashes.

“I let you do what you wanted,” she replies, settling on her knees. She takes his hands and guides them to her hair, her thumb gently rubbing at his wrists where the handcuffs have been digging in. “Now let me do what I want.”

_Christ._

Then she sinks her mouth down onto him and his hands tighten in her hair and it’s all tight, wet heat and he can’t really think anymore.

He’s… not to be, ah, rude but he’s pretty sure Lucy’s never been with an uncut guy before. It takes her a minute to get the hang of things and figure out what’s going on but nobody has ever accused Lucy of being a slow learner, and she’s clearly paying attention to the sounds he’s doing his best to bite back, and then she just about goes to town. She seems to absolutely delight—judging by the pleased purrs she’s making in the back of her throat—in exploring this, her tongue working under and around the foreskin, sliding along the slit at the tip, seeing how far down she can go.

He tries not to tug on her hair too much, and he bites down so hard on the inside of his cheek trying to be quiet that he tastes blood. In some ways it’s not at all comfortable, he’s got handcuffs on and not in the fun way and he’s sitting on a sad excuse for a thin mattress and his back is up against unforgiving concrete. But it’s also the most touch he’s had in weeks and certainly the most intimate touch he’s had since 2014 and it’s Lucy, it’s Lucy that he—the woman he—

“I’m not—” Dammit he stupidly wants to say something like he’s usually, ah, longer lasting than this but that would be the most ridiculous thing to say in the history of sexual encounters. “Lucy you—I’m—” _Fuck_ he can barely think, and he tugs at her hair trying to get her to pull back because she doesn’t have to, he would never ask her—

Lucy just hums, braces herself on his thighs, swirling her tongue around the head, and sinks down as far as she can. Flynn bites viciously down on his lower lip, grunting, his hips jerking as he comes and Lucy works him through it. It feels like his whole spine is melting and he slumps down, everything tingling, feeling relaxed for the first time in years. Lucy doesn’t stop touching him, licking at him until he gets oversensitive and has to gently push her away.

His chest is heaving as she gently tucks him back into his pants and settles herself on his lap again. She even takes his wrists and loops his arms up and over her head so that they’re properly chest to chest.

“There,” Lucy pronounces. She kisses the corner of his mouth, the bolt of his jaw, all warm and soft like she’s the one who just came. Her fingertips stroke his neck, his jawline. “You stubborn man.”

She sounds almost fond. That does dangerous things to his chest, to his ability to breathe, to his sense of gravity. He wishes he could hold her properly, God, he wishes he could tell her he’s sorry, he wishes he could fix this so that she didn’t think she owed him a sexual favor of all fucked up things, he wishes she loved him back.

“How are you feeling?” he asks instead. “With…”

“With Rittenhouse and my mother, yes, as you were so kind to remind me.” The admonition in there is gentle, but it’s still there. “I’m—I’m fine, Flynn. I’m fine.”

“Sure you are. Lucy.” She just spent however long getting brainwashed by a cult and then blew him as some kind of twisted apology-slash-repayment. She’s not fine. “I know—”

— _what that feels like_ , he wants to say, but she kisses him again, swallowing the words, words she clearly doesn’t want to hear right now. It feels like their positions have been reversed, that she’s the one spinning out of orbit and he’s the one standing still, he’s the rock and she’s the comet.

She kisses him again, and again, and he can’t touch her, he can’t repay her, he’s useless and in chains and he can only kiss her back, it’s all he can offer her, and he feels brought low and helpless and like she’s only letting him give her what she wants and not what she actually, truly needs.

He grips the back of her head, undoes her ponytail, runs his fingers through her hair. Lucy makes a soft noise against his mouth and he grips hard, tugs, forces the kiss into something gentler, musing. Lucy shudders and sags against him a little.

“I’ll try,” she whispers. “I’ll try and get you out. I can’t keep coming back, I can’t… we’re in this bunker and it’s all concrete and underground and we can’t leave, or Rittenhouse will get us but… but maybe we can get you to us. I’ll try. I’m trying.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Lucy.”

She laughs softly. It sounds wet but she won’t let him pull back enough to confirm that she’s crying. “I do, though.”

She runs her thumb along the seam of his lips and ducks out from under his arms, gets off his lap and to her feet. “I failed in what I promised you. And I’m sorry.” She shrugs. “And it… y’know, might be good, to have you on the team. We could use you.”

He half wonders if she really thinks that he’ll agree to work with those self-righteous assholes if she blows him enough. Then he sees the hurt in her eyes and worries that this is just another kind of coping mechanism, if he’s the drug she’s chosen, the thing that’ll numb whatever pain she’s in. Addiction and a handy cure for her guilt, all at once.

Lucy turns away, shaking the bars a little. “Christopher? I’m ready.”

He speaks before he even realizes he means to. “There was a South Carolina address on a Rittenhouse agent I killed. 145 Fuller Street, and I think the city was called Darlington.”

Lucy looks back at him as Christopher walks over and the two guards join her. He looks over at Christopher. “This one’s free. The next one will cost you.”

He means for the agent, for his handler, because that’s what she effectively is now whether he likes it or not.

But it’s Lucy who answers, who nods and says, “Okay.”

His stomach sinks. That’s not what he meant, that’s not at _all_ what he meant. “Lucy—” Fuck, he can’t say that in front of the others, if Christopher finds out what Lucy did, what he and Lucy have been doing, she’ll be benched at the least, he can’t do that to her.

Lucy puts her hat back on, adjusts it, and slips out. The guards close the barred door behind her.

And then it’s just him and his guilt and the cold, concrete walls.


	6. The Salem Witch Trials

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’s a time traveling killer,” she points out. “I mean you can’t deny that Flynn has been effective.”
> 
> Flynn finally looks at her, really looks at her, and she can’t read what’s going on in his eyes.
> 
> It makes her realize that usually she can, and the knowledge of that and the knowledge that he’s a blank slate right now makes her want to scream.

Flynn’s back.

He’s back. He’s here, in the bunker. He’s here.

Lucy wants—she wants to run to him, to feel him, make sure he’s real. Prison felt like a liminal space, like some kind of purgatory, and she could touch him but he couldn’t touch her, not properly, and oh she wants, she _wants_.

But… oh God. Wyatt.

Sleeping with Wyatt is—it’s pleasant. Easy. They’re two lost souls and he seems to need her and he’s uncomplicated, he’s simple, and God she wants simple, for once in her damn life. She just spent weeks spinning and spinning out into darkness, falling slowly like she was in the sunken place from _Get Out_ , and she just wants a rock to cling to.

Wyatt is nothing like Flynn, and she supposes that’s why she slept with him. To see if she could get Flynn out of her system, to see if she could find another port in the storm inside of her.

But Flynn—he’s here now. And that means… she’s got to tell Wyatt a lot of very complicated things that Wyatt’s probably not going to understand.

She’s all set to tell him, she really is, even if she knows it’ll hurt Wyatt and God she doesn’t want to hurt him but she’s been in a… a thing, a sort of thing, with Flynn for months now and she misses him and they couldn’t talk properly in prison or even touch properly and fuck she wants him to touch her, not even sexually she just wants him to hold her…

And then Wyatt’s phone goes off.

Wyatt gets a look on his face that she’s never seen before, and then the next thing she knows—he’s gone.

 _Gone_ , gone.

And here she’d been hoping he’d be the simple one.

Doesn’t matter all that much, she supposes. She worries about Wyatt, doesn’t know where he’s gone or why and she does care for him, could, she supposes, love him if Flynn wasn’t in the picture, filling up her vision and her thoughts, a supernova, an explosion she can’t—doesn’t want to—look away from.

But Flynn is in the picture. He’s very much in the picture.

And maybe—there’s a bit of a supernova building up inside of her, too.

She tries to talk to Flynn that night while Denise absolutely scrambles to find out where Wyatt’s gotten his sorry ass to (Rufus’s words, not hers), but Flynn makes some excuse about being tired.

“Breaking out of prison isn’t all fun and games, don’t let the movies fool you,” he tells her.

“You’re wearing a designer leather jacket.”

“Christopher gave me her credit card, what was I supposed to do? Stop at Macy’s?” The scathing note in his voice when Flynn says that last word speaks volumes about his opinion on department stores.

“Well, if you’re—I’ll see you in the morning, then,” she says, lamely. She could push him against the wall and blow him again, she supposes, and the idea isn’t without merit. But Flynn looks rather like a skittish alley cat that’ll claw if anyone comes near and what with the hullabaloo of Wyatt disappearing, and Rufus looking at her like he thinks she’s about to throw herself off a tower in despair over it, she’d rather not risk getting swiped at for her troubles. Seeing as how he was oh so reluctant the last time.

That man is literally the only one she has ever met in existence who is so damn averse to getting laid.

The next morning, she feels more prepared. She will find Flynn and ask him very politely if he will fuck her now, since it has been oh over six months since they started this… whatever it is between them. Then once she has gotten the damn good fucking she royally deserves, thank you very much, they can talk about ‘whatever it is between them’ and maybe, finally, they can get on the same page. Flynn isn’t the enemy now. She knows the truth now. They can be on the same team, together, they can heal together.

Except that Flynn has somehow managed to do what she thought was impossible and turn invisible.

He’s six foot four, and yet, despite that challenge, he’s currently winning a game of hide and seek that she didn’t even know they were playing.

When Denise has her call Wyatt she’s just about ready to scream. She barely pays attention through the conversation, although the shock of Jess coming back is like a bucket of ice water. She can tell that Wyatt feels bad, and she feels pretty bad herself, sad for the fizzled out relationship between them, for the false start, for using him, if that’s what she did. Is that what she did? She feels like it’s what she did.

But it’s fine. It’s all fine. Wyatt’s got Jess and he’ll mend things with her and it’ll all be fine. Flynn needs time to adjust but it’ll all be fine. She’s fine. It’ll be fine. She can make it be fine—

—that smug fucker is sitting there reading a book.

Forget fucking him. She’s going to strangle him.

“Be better with,” Flynn says. Like he’s been sitting there with his cloak of invisibility waiting until just the right moment to say a sassy line and drop said cloak so they all see him with his legs propped up on the kitchen table.

Not strangle. Stab. She’s going to stab him. Repeatedly.

“The 22nd was the deadliest day of the witch trials. Gonna be brutal.”

He’s not even—he’s not even _looking_ at her, he’s looking at Christopher, clearly taking joy out of pushing her buttons.

Shoot. She’s going to shoot him. Starting with his dick.

Denise immediately puts the mom voice on, Flynn responds, and Lucy… well. She is still entertaining her lovely daydream of shooting Flynn about ten times. But on the other hand, Flynn’s current allergy to her presence aside, he had Rittenhouse against the ropes for quite some time. He had her against the ropes, and not just in the, uh, intimate way. And he’s the only one besides Denise who can handle a gun and Denise is clearly staying here to hold down the fort.

“Why do we have him here if we’re not going to use him?”

“We’re using him for intel, not muscle.”

“Aw, c’mon guys.” Flynn lazily swings his legs off the table onto the floor and stands up, striding over. He’s in absolute shit mode, clearly, and Lucy is amending her daydream to include slapping him a few times before she starts shooting. “Fighting the good fight through time is kind of my wheelhouse. And I know all about Salem.”

“Burn a couple witches in your day?” Rufus replies.

“Witches weren’t burned in Salem, they were hanged. Of the accused only those who refused to confess were executed, and it all came to a head on the 22nd, when the final victims were all hanged on the same tree one by one.”

He’s being dramatic, but then again, he’s also being absolutely right. God she hates that he’s fucking right all the time.

Most of the time.

About anything that doesn’t have to do with their sex life, he’s right. Once they get on that subject apparently he’d fit right in over in Salem with his “mustn’t touch or be touched” views. Except as some kind of penance. Is this a Catholic thing? This feels like a Catholic thing.

“He’s right. That’s all true.”

Rufus looks pissed. Denise points out he’s a killer.

Lucy tamps down the irritation. Flynn killed, but so have they, and at least Flynn can sleep at night—if he does sleep, his words from Varlar still ring in her ears—knowing the people he killed were for the most part villains in their own right. She can’t say the same for herself. Even Jesse James still stalks through the trees in her nightmares.

“He’s a time traveling killer,” she points out. “I mean you can’t deny that Flynn has been effective.”

Flynn finally looks at her, really looks at her, and she can’t read what’s going on in his eyes.

It makes her realize that usually she can, and the knowledge of that and the knowledge that he’s a blank slate right now makes her want to scream.

She stares him down. Takes a deep breath. Sets aside what she wants, because oh, God, she’s gotten good at that the last few months. Lucy Preston is the queen at setting aside what she wants for others, for the greater good, sometimes for both at the same time.

Instead of asking him the many things she wants to, she asks him if she can trust him.

And Flynn… nods at her, and somehow, it feels as if he bowed.

 

* * *

 

Rufus can clearly tell something’s going on between his two time traveling buddies but he’s being wise and keeping his mouth shut about it. Even when she and Flynn get into an argument over whether solitary confinement or being brainwashed by a cult is a worse way to spend six months.

She doesn’t understand why he’s poking at her like this, why he’s actively shoving her away. He’s doing this on purpose, to hurt her, and she can’t think why except that he wants to keep her at arm’s length.

 _What did I do wrong?_ She wants to scream at him. She wants to shake him, to strike at his chest until she gets to the heart of him, because her own heart feels raw and on her sleeve and she has tried every other option, she’s tried going silent and she’s tried finding another man and she’s about ready to try a big damn bottle of vodka but she just wants to try the one person who makes her feel fucking _safe_ and instead he’s beating her back like she’s a rabid dog and if she so much as drools on him he’ll die.

Really, it’s no wonder Rufus takes the first excuse he can and jets out of there like there really is a Puritan-era Leatherface on his heels.

Bathsheba and her husband are… well. They’re pieces of work. But for a moment, for just one moment in there, she and Flynn _work_. She gives him the slightest of nods and he understands, follows her command, and it’s a rush of heat and power and tumblers clicking into place and she thinks, finally.

They get their answers, and they leave. She doesn’t feel pity for the couple. Maybe she should. But they’re killing people over petty disputes over property, over old grudges, and she can’t pity that. It makes anger burn in her chest until she feels like a husk, a fragile vessel for all the fire smoking in her.

“That was good, in there,” she says quietly. Because she can’t help but hold out an olive branch. Even if she doesn’t know why she has to.

Flynn makes a sound that could, generously, be called a grunt.

She stops in the road. “Oh, so we’ve upgraded to just not speaking to me at all?”

There’s a lane of sorts, to her left through the trees. Fine. She’ll take that instead. She’s not spending another second with this pile of contradictions, even if he does wear that leather duster rather well.

She storms off.

About ten seconds later she hears a panicked, “Lucy!?”

Ten seconds after that, there’s angry, pounding footsteps and Flynn is grabbing her arm. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Oh, miss me?” She wrenches her arm free. “And here I thought you’d be glad to be rid of me.”

“A strange woman walking alone, in this place, on all days, it’s not wise.”

“You’re not allowed to tell me what is and isn’t wise. You know what’s not wise?” Goddammit she won’t cry, she will not cry. “Purposefully angering your teammate. Whatever I did to make a bug crawl up your ass, I’m sorry, but figure out a way to get rid of it and stop punishing me when I don’t even know what it is I’m being punished for!”

“I’m punishing you? Really? That’s what we’re going with?”

“You haven’t said a single nice thing to me since you got out of prison, and you’re welcome for that by the way, and when you’re not insulting me you’re avoiding me!”

“You did it, Lucy, you did it,” Flynn snaps. “You got me out of prison, your debt is paid. What I don’t understand is why—”

“My _what_?” Oh, oh she can’t believe this bullshit. She takes a step closer and is very gratified to see Flynn take a step back, almost as if he’s scared of her. Yeah, he better be scared. “Is that what you think that was?”

“Lucy—”

“Is that what you think the _blowjob_ was?” She hopes some Puritan teens are nearby and heard that. It would be a nice shock for them.

“Let’s be honest here, you weren’t exactly in the right headspace.”

“I wasn’t in the right headspace!? What the hell have you been in for the past year!?”

“You almost killed yourself, Lucy!” Flynn bellows.

That—that gives her pause. Makes her breath catch. “Who…”

“Rufus.” Flynn gives a soft, bitter laugh. “Told me that I had to be gentle with you. He told me about you and Wyatt, too. Congratulations.”

“I—that—we—” For once, it seems Rufus’s loyal friendship has backfired on her. “Wyatt wasn’t—”

“You weren’t yourself, in prison,” Flynn goes on, cutting her off. “I could tell, you were… trauma recovery can come in a lot of forms, and…”

“Trauma recovery. You thought I gave you a blowjob as a coping mechanism. For trauma.”

Flynn finally seems to get the message that he’s fucked up. He pauses mid word, his mouth open, his eyes a little wide and his face frozen.

Lucy reaches up and undoes her cloak, because fuck if she’s going to let some annoying fabric get in the way.

“I gave you…” Flynn coughs. “You seemed to indicate that it was a way to. Pay me back.”

“Yes, because sexual favors are a one for one deal now.” She takes her stupid head covering off next.

“What the fuck did you expect me to think, Luc—” Flynn squints. “Why are you taking that off?”

Lucy reaches up and undoes the buttons at her top just enough that someone could, if they were so disposed, get their hand on her breasts. “Because I’m going to fuck you.”

Then she jumps up, grabs his face, and kisses him.

Flynn grabs her, catches her so she doesn’t fall, and she ends up pressed against him from head to toe. Kissing him is familiar now, she knows how, and there’s a comfortable confidence in the way he kisses her back. He knows how to suck on her tongue, how to drag his teeth along her bottom lip, he knows how to curl his tongue to make her shudder.

And lucky her, his hands are free this time. Not that a little bondage ever hurt anyone but she prefers it to be voluntary and consensual, not painful handcuffs in a cell where he can’t touch her properly. Now his large hands are roaming sure and certain over her back, down to squeeze her waist, to her ass, her thighs, and he’s lifting her up and turning her and— _ow_ that’s a tree at her back.

Flynn uses his hips to anchor her and oh, yes, she can feel him even through the annoying layers of fabric, hard and thick and undoubtedly hot and she is finally getting him inside of her, she doesn’t care if the Devil himself is real and comes striding out of the foggy woods in ten seconds.

Besides, she has her own devil, and he’s more than capable.

Flynn shoves her skirts up out of the way as she bites kisses along his neck, gets her hands in his hair. Fuck she wishes she had access to his skin, why are they always doing this with clothes on, she wants every inch of him exposed for her hands and her mouth.

“Are you—I don’t—”

She remembers his worries from last time. “I’m on the shot,” she tells him. She just upped it so she’s good. She takes his face in her hands, puts them eye to eye. “How many times am I going to have to ask you before you realize I genuinely want you to fuck me?”

Flynn stares at her for a long moment, a myriad of emotions flicking across his face, and then he says, his voice oddly soft and low,

“Once more.”

She takes a deep breath. Feels like she’s about to leap off a cliff, only the cliff is upside down and she’s not falling, she’s rising, rising up and into the stratosphere, among the stars.

“Garcia. Fuck me. Please.”

Flynn’s mouth is on hers almost before she finishes getting the words out.

One hand tangles in her hair as the other dives under her skirts, skimming along the inside of her thigh before he reaches in between her legs, where she’s wet and aching and trembling. Puritans, funnily enough, didn’t wear much in the way of underwear.

Irony, thy name is stuck-up religious institutions.

Flynn strokes her like he knows how and fuck, he really does know now, they’ve done this enough times that he can read her every expression, knows where to touch her and with how much pressure and for how long. She’d forgotten how long and thick his fingers are and she thrusts into them without shame, uncaring of the rough bark biting into her back, she just wants, she wants, she wanted for so long it feels like all she knows is starvation and never fullness all she knows is hunger—

His fingers slide out of her and she lets out a furious whine. Flynn kisses her, almost as if he’s trying to soothe her, and she hears the sound of his pants being undone.

“Yes,” she chants into his mouth. “Yes, yes, yes.” Her head falls back and Flynn scrapes his teeth over her pulse and he’s sliding into her and God this feels like the only thing she’s ever asked for. “You—you stupid—you idiot I did—I did—I’m doing this because I _want_ to.”

She grabs him, shoves her hips down onto him, ignoring the sting because he really is on the large side (hallelujah), and presses their foreheads together. “Do _not_ , Garcia Flynn, make the mistake of thinking I do this for any reason other than I want to.”

Flynn gives a savage laugh and shoves into her, making her toes curl. “That’s all you do, Lucy.” He gives a few sharp little thrusts that have her seeing stars. She’ll never complain about his fingers or his mouth but _yes_ she wants this every single goddamn day for the rest of her life. “You give and you give, you give everyone else what they want and you let them trample all over you.”

She kisses him savagely, without finesse and without gentleness. One of them draws blood—she realizes it’s her and she licks at his lip in semi-apology. It’s true, what he’s saying, it’s painfully true, but… “Not with you.” She rolls her hips, meeting his every thrust into her. It’s approaching that slick glide, that feeling that she’s dancing on the edge of a knife. “You—you let me take and you never—let me give, just let me _give_ to you for once you son of a bitch—”

This is the kind of sex she thought they would have, back when she first started to entertain the idea. They’re fucking wildly, roughly, she’s clawing at him and he’s burying his face into her breasts and biting through the fabric and they’re tugging at each other’s hair and she can feel the blood from his split lip spread across her mouth like some kind of warrior’s paint. It’s not the kind of sex she wound up wanting them to have. It’s not what she’d thought they’d get when she planned to get him out of prison. She’d dared to hope for something… not less intense, but less like war. Something more, dare she even say, soft.

But clearly that’s not on the agenda today, and a kiss with a fist is better than none.

She’ll take it.

“Let me give,” she whispers, her mouth pressed to his ear, his tongue smoothing out the skin at the juncture of her neck where he just bit her. “Garcia, I want—I—I want to, this isn’t me—I don’t _owe_ you I want—let me—let me be with you—”

Flynn makes a noise like a wounded animal and kisses her again. She tastes salt and realizes she doesn’t know if the tears are from her or from him or from both.

His thumb presses against her clit, rubbing back and forth, and she screams loud enough that some birds in the trees take to the air, startled. Flynn groans and fucks into her wildly and she takes it, she takes all of him, holds the back of his head and seals her lips against his and swallows it all—his moans, his tears, his essence, everything. She takes it inside of her and wishes he understood that it isn’t really her giving anything to him. It’s her taking, just in a new way.

Flynn holds her up against the tree as they catch their breaths. Her hair is undone and his looks wild, they’ve got bruises everywhere, Flynn’s lip is split, his blood is smeared on her face, her breasts have stubble burn and her nipple is smarting in a way that tells her she might have a blooming bite mark there, too, and she can feel the slick from both of them sliding down her thighs.

Well. At least now the mess on the outside matches the mess on the inside.

He sets her down after a moment. If Rufus sees them—if literally anyone with common sense sees them—there’s no way they can hide what they just got up to. A trip to the Lifeboat to fetch her concealer is in order (not that she makes a point of sex on missions but stealing makeup is rather more difficult than stealing clothes).

Flynn carefully brushes off her back and fetches her cap and cloak. He even offers her his arm to lean on as they walk back, get themselves cleaned up, and then head into town. Although, that last bit could be because she’s… well she wouldn’t call it limping but it isn’t her usual gait.

She just got fucked against a tree, she’s allowed to walk oddly if that’s what her hips demand.

It’s not over between them. There’s still so much unsaid, about Wyatt, about their little transactions, about the way her heart seems to go weightless whenever he does his little bow to let her step forward ahead of him. But Flynn is… contrite, she would dare say, judging by his silence and how he touches her carefully. Not chastely, no. Not like he’s scared to touch her. More like… he wants her to feel the thought he’s putting behind it.

It’s not over. But it’s… it’s something.

It’s something when she’s terrified and about to die and Flynn emerges from the woods like Satan himself, come to collect his own. It’s something when she feels the cut of the knife and sees the man responsible blasted to smithereens, turns and sees Flynn’s letting out a breath, like he was holding it, holding it for her. It’s something when she insists she’s fine and he says he knows but he buckles her in anyway and reads between the lines of what she’s saying and promises her she’s nothing like her mother.

It’s something when he helps her down from the Lifeboat and guides her to her room.

And when she wakes up in the middle of the night screaming, pain flashing up and down her arm, her head on fire, she’s blind with pain but she still knows who it is who’s holding her hand, who’s pushing the hair back from her forehead as someone injects her with something and she sleeps.


	7. The Kennedy Curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His wife is dead. Lorena, whose ring he still wears. Lorena, who wore white lace on their wedding day, who he promised in front of God and everyone to love and honor all the days of his life. 
> 
> _His_ life. Not hers. 
> 
> _What God has joined, let no man tear asunder._
> 
> And yet, despite that, he was lost the moment Lucy Preston walked into his life.

They don’t get the chance to talk about what happened in Salem. Flynn plans on it from just about the moment he sets Lucy back down in the forest—as much as the idea of talking about anything close to feelings ties him in knots, he can’t keep doing...whatever it is they’re doing without knowing what exactly she wants from him. Or if she wants anything at all from him besides sex. 

(If she doesn’t, he’ll manage. Lorena used to tease that he didn’t have a medium setting, that casual wasn’t a word in his vocabulary, and that’s still true. But if Lucy needs that from him, he’ll manage. He just needs to know so he can at least try to protect his heart. Even if that may be a lost cause at this point.) 

But they don’t get the chance. First, Lucy and Rufus are taken, then all of them are in the Lifeboat and while there are some things he doesn’t mind saying in front of Rufus, nothing related to his sex life falls into that category, and then—

When Lucy screams in the middle of the night, waking up the entire bunker, Flynn swears his heart stops. He’s the first to her side, not that there’s anything he can do but hold her hand and try to keep her still. She drips with sweat, her skin burning, and the knife wound in her arm is inflamed—fuck, he should have thought—he helped her clean and dress it, but he should have thought then about antibiotics, about what kinds of germs might have been on a 17th century blade, but he didn’t and now he’s helpless, trapped once more in a nightmare of watching a woman he loves die, only he’s awake and he can’t—

Denise brings in a doctor who evicts everyone from the room, and Flynn wants to push back, but he’s shown his hand plenty already and he can’t explain, none of them would understand even if he did. He gets into a blazing argument with Denise instead. Or rather, he rakes her over the coals for not giving him a gun, because he was supposed to protect them, goddammit, and if he hadn’t been forced to go looking for weapons, maybe he could have prevented Lucy from getting stabbed in the first place—for once, the agent just takes it. She doesn’t explicitly agree with him, doesn’t admit she was wrong, but she also doesn’t argue. 

It doesn’t make him feel better. 

Lucy spends three days out of it, feverish and drifting in and out of consciousness. Jiya sits with her most of the time, but Flynn slips in sometimes when the other woman drifts off on the spare cot in the corner. On those nights, he sits at Lucy’s bedside for an hour, maybe two, and holds her hand...and prays. 

Not that he’s particularly good at it—he fell out of the habit during one of his earlier wars—Bosnia, or maybe his first time in Chechnya, he hardly remembers now, the violence and blood and death all blurring together after enough time. Since then, he’s only really tried a handful of times—when Iris was born, when he was so deep in the dark in São Paulo that he couldn’t see any way forward, in that church after 1927—but he’s trying now, for whatever it may be worth. 

_Please don’t take her from me. Not her. Please._

And then, the Mothership jumps. And everything goes to hell.

* * *

“Get Kennedy out of here,” Flynn shouts at Wyatt, firing back at yet another Rittenhouse agent from behind a column. “Come back for me later if there’s no other way, just get him to safety.”

For the first time during the trip, Wyatt doesn’t argue, instead getting an arm around the unconscious teen JFK and hauling him off in the direction of the Lifeboat. It’s not that Flynn relishes the idea of being left in the past—and honestly he’s unconvinced they will, in fact, come back for him—but at the very least it allows him to work without having his every move questioned. Besides which, if he does end up stranded, there are worse time periods than the 30s. 

The French and Indian War for example—to be fair, he always intended to go back for Lucy. Eventually. 

But, he is stuck. And once he finally deals with all the sleeper agents, there is nothing for him to do but think. Which is...an uncomfortable prospect to say the least. 

Even days later, his lip still bears faint hints of tenderness from when Lucy drew blood in Salem. Flynn prods at the healed over spot as he settles on a random bench to wait. 

Salem...shouldn’t have happened. Not like that. Flynn’s gut twists with guilt as he recalls the memory—too rough, too hard, over too fast. Even if Lucy wanted it—and he believes she did, isn’t going to deny her the agency of her choice after how furious she had been with him for his comments about what happened in the prison—it shouldn’t have been like that. Christ, Lucy deserves everything. Sweetness and warmth and light. Softness. Worship. 

And he can give her that. He gave her that in D.C, would have in Paris if she hadn’t pushed them into something fiercer, sharper. But he doesn’t deserve that. The reciprocity. Even if he wants it, even if he would give anything for it—

His wife is dead. Lorena, whose ring he still wears. Lorena, who wore white lace on their wedding day, who he promised in front of God and everyone to love and honor all the days of his life. 

_His_ life. Not hers. 

_What God has joined, let no man tear asunder._

And yet, despite that, he was lost the moment Lucy Preston walked into his life.

He never should have started anything at all. He never should have touched her. But when he did he thought that as long as it was just about her, if he wasn’t getting anything from it besides the satisfaction of making her feel good—maybe then he didn’t have to feel so guilty. 

Stupid, maybe. Illogical, definitely. But that was how he justified it at first. 

Flynn never expected Lucy would actually want him back. That was never supposed to happen. He is too dark, too broken, too damaged—when he told her he couldn’t go back to Lorena, couldn’t be a husband again, he wasn’t just talking about his family. Even then he knew he loved her—impossibly, guiltily, desperately—and even after São Paulo, after reading the journal so many times his fingerprints were practically stained into the pages, part of him wanted her to hate him. As frustrating, as infuriating as it was to have her fighting him at every turn, it made certain things easier. His family and Rittenhouse, those were the things that mattered. He didn’t need her. 

(He’d been a fool to ever even think it. He did need her. He _does_ need her. To keep him sane, to keep him from drowning in the dark. The devil can’t have his soul as long as Lucy still holds a piece of it.)

_Let me_ , she begged him, first in his cell and then in Salem. 

_Let me be with you._

She can’t have meant it the way it sounded. That’s what Flynn has to tell himself. Because in that moment, when she said it, he knew if he let himself believe the obvious interpretation, she would be able to shatter his bruised and battered heart like the most fragile of glasses. 

(She already could. But if he can’t even pretend at distance, he really will be lost. Saved, perhaps, as well. But utterly lost.)

And yet, in the back of his mind the smallest of voices whispers that Lorena loved him. That she was good and compassionate and kind—she would have wanted him to move on, to be happy, no matter the circumstances. She probably would have ripped him to shreds for using her memory as an excuse if he’s honest. 

Not for the first time, Flynn puts his head in his hands, allowing himself to feel all the exhaustion that he pushes through every day. The weight of his guilt, grief, shame, of a thousand sleepless nights—it settles on his shoulders like an albatross. And he breathes through it.

Eventually, minutes or hours later—fucking time travel confuses everything—he sees a flare in the distance, the telltale sign of a time machine distorting reality. Sure enough, when he goes to investigate, he finds the Lifeboat, Wyatt, Rufus, and JFK looking no worse for wear. 

“What took so long?” Flynn snarks as he buckles himself in for the return. “Did you lose the kid or something?”

It’s meant as a joke, but the other two men go suspiciously quiet. 

...no. 

Why did he want to work with these idiots again? Oh, right. He didn’t. But unfortunately, they were a bit of a package deal with Lucy. 

_Lucy._

“How is—“ Flynn starts to ask, but then the Lifeboat lands, the doors open, and there she is—alive and awake and...wearing his suit jacket. 

Fuck, he loves her. 

Flynn doesn’t remember what he says later—something snarky probably—but he remembers what happens after. Wyatt and Lucy may not have meant for their conversation to be overheard, but it’s a small bunker. Things happen. 

What Flynn can’t figure out is if Lucy is upset. They never finished talking about Wyatt in Salem either, another topic lost in the haze of everything that happened, and while Flynn is pretty sure she had been going to say it wasn’t what he thought—likely, given what had happened between them just a few days prior, although that’s not determinative—he is nevertheless reminded that he doesn’t know. 

Well. He doesn’t have to ask for clarification in order to be there for her if she needs that. So he showers off the sweat and dirt and blood of the day, changes into more comfortable clothes, and finds Lucy on the couch, an old movie flickering on the TV. 

He pauses at first, chest tightening with uncertainty. She doesn’t look heartbroken, but she does look tired, distant, numb. Maybe she doesn’t want to see anyone. Maybe he should go. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he grabs two beers from the refrigerator and walks over to the couch, settling next to her with just enough space so she hopefully won’t feel crowded. And then he holds out the second beer and doesn’t breathe until she takes it. 

But she does. And so they sit, not saying a word, but existing. Existing in the same place at the same time in quiet companionship, and for the moment there isn’t a war to fight, there are no imminent skeletons to deal with. There’s just them. Existing. 

The albatross grows a little lighter. 

Eventually, Lucy sets her beer on the coffee table, her eyes fixed on the screen. But then, slowly, as if she’s afraid he’ll spook, her hand covers his on the couch. Flynn swallows hard and tries not to look over, tries to keep his face under control even as he positively aches to lace his fingers through hers, to pull her close against his side and bury his face in her hair and just breathe. 

Inch by inch, Lucy closes the rest of the space between them on her own, ultimately resting her head on his shoulder. Flynn closes his eyes—it’s been years since he’s had intimacy like this—soft, quiet, non-sexual—and he’s gotten very good at ignoring how touch-starved he is, but this is damn near overwhelming for how simple it is. 

Talk. They need to talk. And yet—Flynn wets his lips, but no words come, Lucy sighs and presses a lazy kiss to his neck, and on the television, credits roll. 

Flynn doesn’t move. Lucy curls closer. A few minutes later when he glances over, she’s asleep. And his heart—battered and bruised and fragile though it may be—skips a beat. 

He sits there until the end of the next movie that comes on, but no one comes in and Lucy doesn’t wake. Finally, he shifts enough to get his hands under her and carries her off to her room. 

Jiya gives him an intrigued look when he comes through the door—Rufus must be working on the Lifeboat if she’s alone—but doesn’t say a word until he’s settled Lucy in her bed. 

“She missed you today,” Jiya says quietly, right before he leaves. “For what it’s worth.”

Flynn glances back over his shoulder at Lucy’s sleeping form. 

“Thank you for taking care of her,” he replies. 

“She’s my friend.” It’s a warning as much as an explanation, but not the kind he would have expected from Rufus or Wyatt. There’s no inherent distrust in it. 

It’s kind of nice. 

Flynn isn’t sure what to say to that, so instead he just nods and slips out of the room. His own feels emptier than before. 

He adds that to the list of things he shouldn’t think about. He’s done more than enough of that for the day. 

And yet. 

_She missed you today._

Despite himself, Flynn smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "But, wings! Where's the smut????" You may be wondering. 
> 
> The answer is this chapter was SUPPOSED to be Delta Blues but SOMEBODY wouldn't cooperate. So instead you get 2.2K of Flynn angsting and I am laughably reminded that we have no control over this nonsense whatsoever. I would like to say we'll be returning to your regularly scheduled smut next chapter. That's the plan at least. But honestly...who knows. Smdh, I hate one beautiful tragic man.


	8. The King of the Delta Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No, you gave it to me. You wanted me to read it, and I did.” Flynn pushes off the wall, comes to stand in front of her. “Look, at first, all I cared about was that it was a tool to take down Rittenhouse. But the more I read it, the longer I stayed with it, the more I felt like I knew you. Understood you. Lucy...sometimes I feel like I know you better than you know yourself.”
> 
> “What do you want from me, Flynn?” Lucy snaps, all the vulnerability she’s been struggling with for weeks rearing its head at once. “You don’t know me. Reading some book and getting your hand up my skirt a few times doesn’t change that.”

Flynn is avoiding her. Again. 

At least, Lucy is pretty sure he is, because from the night she falls asleep on him on the couch for about a solid two weeks after, she sees him maybe once a day. Admittedly, the distance isn’t just on him—she knows where he is most of the time. Technically, there’s nothing stopping her from knocking on his bedroom door and asking to spend some time there. But something stops her every time. 

Salem was...fuck. The sex was good. The sex was great, in fact. But the fight they had before it, seeing her mother after, getting sick, spending a whole day running around with Wyatt and Jessica—everything compounded has left her feeling rubbed raw, vulnerable as an exposed nerve, and she isn’t sure she can handle the risk of claws if she tries to seek comfort from Flynn, sexual or otherwise. 

The couch was...new. Different for them. And she loved it, maybe even more than the sex, the way he made her feel safe and steady and protected. She slept. 

That’s pretty rare lately. 

(The thing is, Flynn wasn’t entirely wrong in Salem. He was wrong that she was using sex with him as some sort of...trauma recovery, or some kind of bartering system. But he wasn’t wrong that she’s a mess. He wasn’t wrong, because she can barely close her eyes without being reminded of those six weeks with Rittenhouse, of her mother, of Emma, of Amy—she killed a man. She was going to kill herself. And sometimes, in the middle of the night, when she wakes up from another nightmare of Amy screaming, of Emma sneering that she’ll never get her sister back, sometimes she can’t help wondering if it would have been better if Wyatt and Rufus had never come for her. If she could have succeeded. If that would have been better—)

There are a lot of things Lucy just wants to _talk_ to Flynn about. There are an equal number she doesn’t want to talk about at all, to anyone, but some things she wants to talk to Flynn about—Jesse James, that soldier, the fact that seeing Jess and Wyatt kills her a little bit, not because she wants to be with him, but because it doesn’t seem fair. As horrible as it may have been, Jess died. She lived and she died and people were able to remember that. And meanwhile, Amy—Amy never existed at all. She didn’t die, she was alive, she was happy, and then she was just...erased. And Lucy is the only one who remembers. The only one who can. It isn’t _fair_.

But she can’t talk to Flynn without seeking him out, she can’t talk to anyone else, and she can’t sleep. So instead, she drinks. Is it healthy? Of course not. But she’ll take the hangovers if they mean she doesn’t dream at night. 

And then, the alarms go off. And for once, Denise benches Wyatt instead of Flynn.

For all that Flynn was avoiding her, it certainly doesn’t seem to be the case when they land in 1936. Lucy’s stomach rolls and head aches more than usual—although whether from the Lifeboat modifications or the hangover, she can’t say. Flynn notices though, reaching out to help her down from the ship.

The swoop in her stomach when his hands curve around her waist though—that is neither time travel nor booze.

“You okay?” Flynn asks quietly as Connor monologues partway down the hill.

“I’m fine,” Lucy replies, brushing off the concern as he sets her down. His mouth twists like he doesn’t believe her, but he also doesn’t push, and on they go.

Find some clothes, steal a car. They’ve gotten awfully good at that now. As they go off in search, Lucy wonders if this is just going to be her life now. Running and running from one time period to the next, never actually stopping anything, never actually winning this war they’re fighting.

After those six weeks with Rittenhouse...a year ago she struggled with thinking Flynn had the right idea, innocent and naive as she was, uncomfortable even as she found herself progressively more in agreement. And in D.C. she still stopped him, thinking she could do better, that they could be better. Now...now she hardly knows what to think. But she’s pretty sure they can’t keep playing catch-up forever. It’s not sustainable. 

But. That’s an issue for another time.

 _Find some clothes, steal a car._ On they go.

* * *

It’s dark by the time Lucy winds up in a motel room with Flynn, Law the producer out grabbing his equipment, leaving them with at least a few minutes of privacy. She steals a look at Flynn out of the corner of her eye as he adjusts his cufflinks, appreciative but wary. 

“What did you do with the body?” She asks, then kicks herself for it. Not exactly the light conversation starter she could have gone with. 

“You really want to know?” Flynn shoots back. Lucy looks away, taking out her stolen earrings, and he takes her silence as the answer. 

Why are you avoiding me? She thinks, the words on the tip of her tongue, when Flynn speaks again. 

“I think it’s time we leveled with each other,” he says, and she freezes. “I’m much more fun on these missions than Wyatt.”

It’s not what Lucy expected, and she laughs despite herself, feeling like she’s dodged a bullet. 

“You’re delusional,” she teases, even though it’s true. He knows it, she knows it—she’s more comfortable with Flynn, knows he has her back. Even in Salem when he ran off, when she and Rufus were left alone, she knew he’d be back. 

She likes having him here. At her back, at her side, on her team. The other things—the messy, complicated feelings that twist her up inside, the having to constantly justify his presence to everyone else, the avoidance—she could do without quite so many of those. But they do make a good team, at least like this. Isn’t that what he always said they would be? And now she sees it. 

“It must be awkward between you two,” Flynn adds, and Lucy tenses again. Of course. There’s the other shoe. 

“It’s not,” she replies. Not how he’s implying anyway. 

“Rufus and Wyatt giggling like schoolboys over Wyatt’s late-night activities with Jessica—that’s not awkward?” 

Lucy rolls her eyes. 

“If you wanted to finish our conversation on that subject, you could have just asked,” she points out. “There’s no need to beat around the bush.” 

“I didn’t mean—“

“I was going to end it,” Lucy interrupts. It’s not the time or the place, but if he must, if he can’t be bothered to have these discussions at normal times, to even attempt to pretend that they’re normal people with anything close to a conventional relationship—her chest twists at the word— “It was just one night and then you were back and I knew I couldn’t—I was going to tell him I was sorry, that it was a mistake, that I wanted—“

 _You._

For a moment, Flynn is so still it’s almost as if she’s slapped him. And then, of all possible responses, what he comes out with is—

“You’re drinking.”

Lucy’s eyes narrow. “And? I spent six weeks with a supremacist cult, including my mother, and I’m a grown woman. I think I’m entitled to a few drinks when the occasion calls for it.” 

Flynn looks away at the reminder of her time with Rittenhouse, but his jaw ticks at the second part of her statement. 

“If you really believed that, you wouldn’t be hiding it,” he replies evenly. 

“Yeah, well, I don’t think you get to avoid me for two weeks and then pass judgment on my coping mechanisms.”

“Dammit, Lucy, I’m not judging you, I’m—what do you mean avoiding you?”

Lucy sits on the edge of the bed and tucks her hair behind her ears. “Like you haven’t been?”

“I’ve been in my room,” Flynn says slowly. “Everyone knows that. The door wasn’t locked, Lucy, you could have come in at any time.”

“You avoid everyone else, how was I supposed to know that? It’s not like you ever said.”

“Lucy—” He presses his lips together and closes his eyes for a beat. “Did it ever occur to you that perhaps I might not exactly relish being trapped in a tin can with several people who wouldn’t care if I dropped dead tomorrow? And to your point, I don’t remember you asking either. Two-way street.” 

That’s...fair. Shame prickles across her skin and she clears her throat, searching her mind for a way to change the subject.

“How do you know about the drinking anyway?” She asks. “Figure out a way to spy on me without leaving your room?”

It’s Flynn’s turn to roll his eyes. “No,” he replies. “But...you may have mentioned something about it in the journal.”

Ah. They’ve wandered into a minefield without meaning to, but now that they’re here, it feels like they need to push through it. Going back isn’t an option. 

“Lucy...when you gave me that book—”

“Which may or may not be true,” she interrupts.

“No, you gave it to me. You wanted me to read it, and I did.” Flynn pushes off the wall, comes to stand in front of her. “Look, at first, all I cared about was that it was a tool to take down Rittenhouse. But the more I read it, the longer I stayed with it, the more I felt like I knew you. Understood you. Lucy...sometimes I feel like I know you better than you know yourself.”

“What do you want from me, Flynn?” Lucy snaps, all the vulnerability she’s been struggling with for weeks rearing its head at once. “You don’t know me. Reading some book and getting your hand up my skirt a few times doesn’t change that.” 

Flynn flinches and looks away, and Lucy’s stomach twists with guilt. Because he does know her. He knows her so well that it’s almost uncomfortable—sometimes she likes it because it means she doesn’t have to say as much, but other times—she can’t hide anything, she can’t run, and she didn’t choose that. 

“What do you think this is to me, Lucy?” He asks quietly, not looking back to her. “Do you think I—”

He cuts himself off as a knock comes at the door.

Saved by the bell. Or the bellboy rather. But it doesn’t make her feel any less gutted. 

Lucy swallows hard. 

“Flynn—”

“We should find Law.”

“ _Flynn_.” She stops him with a hand on his arm and he stares at it for a moment.

“Later,” he says, glancing up to meet her eyes. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

It’s not an apology, not as such. That’s not what they do. But it’s enough to move them out the door. It’s enough.

* * *

There’s a second sleeper agent. 

Fuck. They should have guessed, should have at least considered it given that there were multiple agents sent after JFK, but they didn’t, and so Law is dead and now they have to rush to get to Connor and Rufus before the sleeper does. 

And they’re stuck in a car. In a car with a song on the radio that does very little to tone down the atmosphere, and all Lucy can think about is how to take back what she said before.

But as it turns out, she doesn’t have to start. 

“You were right, Lucy.” Flynn says, and she looks over at him. “I don’t know you. I guess what I was trying to say back there is that I’d like to get to know you. But I understand if you don’t want that.” 

Lucy’s shaking her head before he’s even finished. 

“No, you—I shouldn’t have said that,” she replies. “It’s just that I—what you said in Salem, about how I give too much, that I let people walk all over me—I also don’t talk about myself, I don’t complain, I am terrible at telling people off when they hurt me because I don’t want to take up space. And you know all these things and you care and it’s—I’m not used to that. I don’t—I don’t know how to do that.”

Flynn glances over briefly before looking back to the road, the corner of his mouth turning up wryly. “You’ve never seemed to have a problem telling me off.”

“Yeah, well, you’re—different.”

The song continues, and Lucy listens for a moment before Flynn clears his throat.

“Lorena used to sing this song,” he admits. “She would...lie on the couch humming it. Actually used to bother me. Now it’s—it’s the little details like that I miss the most. The pranks she pulled, her icy feet at night, the smell of her hair…”

Lucy bites her lip, fighting the urge to reach for him. Instead, she does the only other thing she can think to do.

“My sister, she had this strawberry-scented shampoo,” she offers. “When we were little, she would get scared at night, so she’d crawl into my bed and snuggle into me, her hair right up against my nose. I’d dream all night about milkshakes.”

“I never intended that to happen,” Flynn replies. “Your sister disappearing. I—I never wanted to hurt you, Lucy.”

“I know. You couldn’t have—no one could have—” She trails off, shaking her head. 

“We’ll never get back the people we love, will we?”

“Only if we give up hope,” Flynn says. “I know somehow, some way, we’ll save the people we love.” 

Lucy glances at his wedding ring, taking a breath. 

_What do you think this is to me, Lucy?_

She hardly wants to name it. From this man? Who was prepared to burn down the world for one woman he loved? 

“What you said, back in 1780—do you still feel that way? That you can’t go back?”

“None of us can go back, Lucy,” Flynn sighs. “But yes. I meant it then and I still do.”

Lucy nods once and focuses on the road in front of them. There’s nothing else she can think of to say at the moment, but she mulls the past few hours over in her mind for the rest of the drive. And the silence isn’t awkward anymore. It’s comfortable.

* * *

That night, after music, after laughter, after hands brushing under the table and what Lucy might be inclined to call a date if it hadn’t been shared with Rufus and Connor, she sits on the couch with her bottle of vodka. Alone. Again. 

Except, she really doesn’t want to be alone, and she doesn’t particularly feel like drinking either. Without letting herself think too hard, she grabs the bottle and walks down the hall to Flynn’s room, pausing only briefly before knocking. He did say she could come by any time after all. 

The door opens. Her chest twinges as she leans against the wall, staring up at him. After a beat, he smiles softly and takes a step back, creating just enough space for her to slip past him into the room. 

Before, she was drinking so she didn’t feel alone, so she could sleep. But she’s not alone now. And there are other ways to get to sleep. 

After the day they had, she really just wants to be with him. 

“I don’t have any glasses in here,” Flynn says, and Lucy sets the vodka on the nightstand. 

“We don’t have to drink,” she replies. “We could just...talk. Or...”

Flynn steps closer and she shivers at the heat of him against her back. 

“Or?” 

Lucy turns around and settles her hands on his chest, sliding them up slowly. There’s a flutter in her stomach, a shyness that makes it hard to meet his eyes, but his sweater is soft and warm and he is so solid beneath it—

“Lucy.” Flynn’s voice is quiet as he gently tips her face up to look at him. Her breath catches at the look in his eyes—unbearably soft, saying far more than he’s said in words. The first time he kissed her she thought it was safer somehow than with someone else, that there was nothing of love in it. She’s only now realizing just how laughably wrong she was. 

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” she says, tongue tripping over the syllables in a rush to get them out. “I never expected it to begin with, and then it kept happening, and at some point—“

Lucy curls her fingers in Flynn’s sweater and takes a shaky breath to steady herself. She’s standing on a cliff, looking out over the edge, and it’s beautiful and terrifying at once. 

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” she repeats. “I don’t know what this is. But I do know that it’s—it’s not just sex. Not for me. Because somehow at some point you became the only person I could count on for so many things. And I don’t want to lose that, I don’t want to fuck this up, but sometimes I want you so badly I can’t breathe—“

There’s more she could say. A lot more. But Flynn ducks his head and then he’s kissing her and she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry so she just kisses him back.

Lucy pulls him back with her to the bed, pushing him down so she can climb into his lap. She doesn’t stop kissing him, soft and comfortable and slow. She curls her tongue around his, slips her hands under his sweater—she’s wanted him bare against her for ages, wanted them to do this without clothes, and they finally have the chance. She’s damn well going to take her time. 

Her hips roll lazily against his as she gets his shirt off and claims his mouth again—her breath hitches when he arches up underneath her, giving her just enough friction to tease. They did rough and fast and hard in Salem, and she liked that, enjoys getting to claw and scratch and bite and mark up her partners. But this—god, she could do this for hours, kissing his lips, his jaw, his neck, his chest—Flynn gets her shirt off and sets his mouth to her sternum, kisses down to her breasts, making her sigh as she weaves her fingers into his hair. 

“Garcia…”

Flynn hums against her skin and lifts her out of his lap, laying her out on the bed and sinking to his knees so he can get her pants off. That, she doesn’t mind in the least, but when he drops kisses to her thighs, spreads them—

“No,” Lucy murmurs, tugging at his hair to pull him back up. “Not this time.”

Flynn looks up at her and wets his lips, his thumbs ghosting small circles against her thighs. 

“No?”

“You’re too far away,” she explains. “I need—come back to me. Please.”

He doesn’t argue, just gets to his feet, shucks his own pants, and lets her settle back into his lap. She caresses his face with the backs of her fingers, then leans in to kiss him again as he slides a hand between her thighs instead. 

“I’m fine,” she breathes, pressing the words into his mouth as he gets his fingers into her. “I’m good, I’m ready, I don’t need—”

Flynn kisses her harder, insistent, and Lucy laughs, sliding her hands over his shoulders. She grinds down on his fingers, nips playfully at his lip—

“Come on.” She shivers and bites off a moan as his fingers curl into the perfect spot. But it’s not enough. “Flynn—Garcia, please, please, please, just—sweetheart, I want—I need—”

He kisses her again, but this time in acquiescence as he pulls his hand away, lines himself up—

_Oh, god._

Lucy’s nails bite into Flynn’s shoulders as he slips inside her, his hands on her hips helping her sink down slowly. Her forehead presses against his as she pants against his mouth, trying to stay quiet even as she is utterly overwhelmed. 

“ _Flynn_.” 

He rumbles quietly and kisses her neck, giving her just a hint of teeth as he rolls his hips under her. It’s slow at first, demanding in its intensity, and Lucy can do very little but cling to him, reveling in the stretch, the slide, in the feeling of his arms around her, enclosing her, holding her together, keeping her safe. And then, gradually it shifts, her pace increasing as he winds her up higher and hotter, faster and harder and so fucking good, until stars are bursting behind her eyelids and she’s biting into his shoulder so she won’t scream as she comes. Flynn doesn’t last much longer, spilling into her after a few more thrusts, and she shivers as she kisses him again. 

God, she wants to stay like this forever. 

Eventually, though, they do have to separate, and Lucy bites off a whine as he slides out of her. 

Flynn’s hands skim over her thighs, he hips, her waist, no particular pattern, just like he can’t stop himself from touching her. 

“How about now?” He asks after kissing her again. 

“Now, what?”

Flynn drags his gaze over her as he shifts back, then meets her eyes as he very deliberately wets his lips. 

_Fuck._

Lucy laughs breathlessly and lets him press her back against the mattress, closing her eyes as he kisses down her body.

“If you must.”

(Apparently, he must.)

They don’t get a lot of sleep. Lucy doesn’t mind at all.


	9. Mrs. Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Look, I know the Jessica thing was a little unexpected, and… and maybe you’re on a rebound or something…”
> 
> “Rebound?” Oh, this is rich. “I’m sorry, from what? Our one-night relationship?”
> 
> “That is not what I meant. I just meant that you are making a big mistake.”
> 
> “What I do and who I do it with is none of your damn business.”

Lucy wakes up, to her consternation, to an empty bed.

She distinctly remembers falling asleep (quite worn out and pleasantly achy) with her head on Flynn’s shoulder and her arm draped over his chest (his bare chest, since she stole his shirt and has no intention of giving it back).

Now the blankets are tucked securely around her, but her lover is...

“Good morning.”

Lucy sits up like a shot. Flynn laughs. He’s dressed, which is annoying, and sitting in the chair. “Here.” He passes her a mug of coffee.

Lucy gives him a pointed look, then looks at the empty spot next to her on the bed.

Flynn puts his hands up in a gesture of surrender and gets his own mug, sitting next to her. Lucy leans against his side—and wonder of wonders, Flynn puts his arm around her shoulders.

God, she hopes this is okay with him. She hopes she isn’t invading his space, that she’s allowed this, that she hasn’t overstepped...

“Is this okay?” she whispers. “That I came, that I stayed the night?”

She watches his throat bob as he swallows. “You can stay as much as you want,” Flynn says, his voice low and rough. Then he adds, “You were a gentle and responsive lover.”

Lucy balks, then smacks him on the chest. “You asshole,” she says, but she’s laughing. She knows for a fact there are at least three hickeys hiding under that shirt, and her fingernails have made tracks all over his back. Responsive, sure. Gentle? Not in the least.

And yet... last night was... softer. Sweeter. Intense, yes. But the way that he held her, the way he let her kiss him... her heart cracks open all over again just remembering it.

“You okay?” Flynn asks.

It’s too much, the way her heart is swelling in her chest. The way she feels safe here, the tenderness in his touch and her bruised soul. She craved this and now that she has it she’s terrified of it drowning her.

She’s terrified that she wants to drown.

Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? She’s jumped off the cliff now and she’s free falling right into the ocean and she’s tired of holding her breath.

She wants to inhale. She wants to drown, yes, yes, let her drown.

“I’m good.” She turns her face, kisses his neck like she did the other night on the couch.

This time, she gets an answering kiss to the top of her head.

“I should go change,” she whispers. “And we should... finish talking.”

Flynn rumbles out an agreement.

“You’re easy to talk to,” she adds. She doesn’t want him thinking that because of their recent miscommunications that she no longer feels like she can be honest with him. If anything, honesty’s come easier with him than with anyone else.

“That’s not surprising, is it?” Flynn replies. His tone is soft. “We’ve both lost people... we’re both geniuses...”

Lucy’s startled by her own snort of laughter. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“I will, thank you.”

She just has to kiss that smug smirk off his face. She feels so light inside. Weightless. Like the pain she’s been carrying like a stone in her chest for so long is finally starting to lift. She had forgotten—maybe had never truly known—that this was supposed to take her pain away, not add to it.

‘This.’ The thing she still hasn’t quite named.

She shoves that aside and focuses on sucking the taste of coffee from Flynn’s tongue. He gives a soft kiss, just one more, as she pulls away. It feels like a gift. One for the road. Even if the road is only the twenty feet or so to the room that she until recently shared with Jiya to retrieve new clothes.

“Thank you,” she whispers. For the coffee, for his patience, for holding her all night, for everything. “I’ll—I’ll see you at breakfast?”

His thumb strokes over her cheekbone. “See you then.”

She gets to her feet—practically stumbles to the door—tries to open it the wrong way and almost hits her head. She’s grinning, practically giggling, feeling like she’s fourteen and just had her first kiss all over again.

And Flynn is watching her with that soft smile the whole time, like she’s the greatest thing he’s ever seen.

 

* * *

 

Rufus isn’t in the room when Lucy knocks, but Jiya is.

She looks like she’s a wolf patiently waiting to pounce. “So... how was the sex?”

Lucy weighs the possibility of Jiya believing outright denial, and goes to get some decent clothes that actually fit her because they’re not made for a six foot four man. “Hypothetically, if I had sex...”

“Hypothetically.” Jiya’s grin is nothing short of gleeful.

“Hypothetically, it was fantastic.” Her legs still ache.

“So, hypothetically, will you be moving your clothes out?”

She hadn’t thought about that. Would Flynn want that? Would he welcome her crawling that deeply into his life? This is still rather new—not the sex but the, the other part, even if it feels like they’ve been on this course from the beginning. Like this was the orbit they were always meant to fall into.

“...hypothetically, I hope so.”

Jiya gets up, and to Lucy’s surprise, hugs her. “Hypothetically, I’m really happy for you. He—he really cares about you.”

“I...”

“Nuh-uh.” Jiya releases her and shakes her head. “He wouldn’t leave your side when you were sick. He really, really cares about you.”

She knows she’s blushing, knows she looks ridiculous, but... but to be someone’s priority, finally. To be allowed to have what she wants, finally. It’s... it feels like something she shouldn’t dare to reach for, and yet.

“Thanks,” she says, lamely, and then she’s getting a pillow thrown at her and jokingly promising to stop having sex long enough to take some time to continue the Real Housewives marathons with Jess and Jiya.

She’s not sure, it’s been so long, but this feels like happiness.

 

* * *

 

Flynn tries not to smile as he walks to the showers. If he does then whoever’s currently in there—and he knows someone is, the light is on and the water just cut off—will ask why, and he won’t have an answer.

He and Lucy haven’t been… they haven’t told anyone, about their… whatever they are. Jiya knows, Flynn’s pretty sure. After he carried Lucy to bed that one time, the way he held her hand while she was sick and he and Jiya were standing vigil—Jiya’d have to be about a third as smart as she is to not realize something was going on between the two of them.

But he and Lucy are still figuring this whole thing out. Waking up this morning with her in his arms was the lightest he’s felt in years. She’d clung to him as he’d slid out of bed to get coffee, an unhappy little frown crossing her face.

His heart had just about up and burst.

He’s happy, God he’s so fucking happy, but they still haven’t yet gotten onto solid ground. They’re more solid than they were, for sure. But they have yet to declare what they are to each other, what the boundaries are, and for his part, the last thing he wants is the opinions of others muddling the waters.

 _Sweetheart_. That was what Lucy called him last night. _Sweetheart, I want—I need—_

It had been the shock of that more than anything else that had him acquiescing to her demands. Lucy can plead with him all damn day long but he knows her, he knows she rushes into the sex and he’s not going to hurt her just because she’s got a bit of a thing for size.

But. _Sweetheart_.

And the look on her face when she’d told him, _you’re too far away._

Yeah, it’s real hard to keep the smile off his face as he enters the bathroom.

…and then he sees Wyatt and suddenly it’s real easy.

“Any hot water left?” he asks, throwing the towel over his shoulder. Might as well try and be polite. Lucy said that the night she had with Wyatt didn’t mean anything to her, and he believes her, but Wyatt doesn’t seem to feel that way. Flynn would like to avoid a fight, though. If only because he knows Lucy won’t appreciate it.

“Stay the hell away from her,” Wyatt growls. He’s busying himself at the sink, not even looking at Flynn.

Flynn bites back what he wants to say, which is something along the lines of, _the bite marks on my chest suggest it’s a bit late for that_. As much as he’d like to horrify Wyatt with every dirty detail of the animal in bed that is Lucy Preston, this isn’t about that. It’s about Lucy’s sense of agency, and neither he nor anyone else has a right to talk about her like an object that can be owned and passed from person to person. Wyatt doesn’t own Lucy, but Flynn doesn’t either. It was her own choice to come to him, God knows he still wonders why, and that’s what’s important here.

“Oh, you mean, Lucy?” he asks, keeping his tone casual. “You know she’s not your wife, right?”

Wyatt glares at him through the mirror.

“That’s the blonde lady down the hall,” Flynn points out helpfully. “Unless history’s changed again.”

“I’m warning you,” Wyatt says. Like he’s a warrior on a quest and Flynn’s the idiot knight standing in his way. Jesus Christ.

“What is it you want from her, Wyatt? Because if you have a problem, I suggest you talk to Lucy about it. She’s perfectly capable of making her own choices, don’t you think?”

Wyatt doesn’t seem to have anything to say to that, so he just continues to glare.

Flynn tries not to roll his eyes as he walks away towards the shower. Maybe he should strip off his shirt right here, show off the red stripes down his back from Lucy’s nails.

But then, that would be like lighting a fire in a gas station. And while he’s not opposed to setting things ablaze, he’d rather not create more trouble for Lucy. She’s a big girl. Whatever Wyatt wants to go and whine to her about, she’s more than capable of handling.

 

* * *

 

Lucy isn’t sure which she hates more: this situation, the way men talk to her in this time period, or Wyatt Logan.

Currently, Wyatt is working his way to the top of the list.

She’s got enough to worry about here without Wyatt adding his unwelcome two cents on her relationship with Flynn to the pile.

And thanks, Grace, for making those astute observations on the extremely awkward situation here. She really needed that. Ugh.

“What?” she asks, when Grace leaves and Wyatt scoffs.

“Nothing.”

“Something.”

Wyatt sighs. “You want to talk? Fine. Let’s talk.” He walks over to her, clearly pissed as hell. “I saw you this morning.”

“Saw me what?” she asks, but she thinks she already knows the answer. Her stomach drops like a stone. She and Flynn are—they just got onto relatively the same page, they just—she can’t have Wyatt ruining that with his judgment, she can’t. She will fight until blood is drawn to keep what she has with Flynn intact.

“Coming out of Flynn’s room. Flynn? For God’s sakes? The terrorist who spent all last year trying to kill us?”

He wasn’t trying to kill us, she screams internally. Just stop us.

“Look, I know the Jessica thing was a little unexpected, and… and maybe you’re on a rebound or something…”

“Rebound?” Oh, this is rich. “I’m sorry, from what? Our one-night relationship?”

“That is not what I meant. I just meant that you are making a big mistake.”

“What I do and who I do it with is none of your damn business.” She takes a step closer, getting into his face. “We slept together once, Wyatt. Once! That doesn’t entitle you to have an opinion about anything else I do in my life.”

“You—but—“ Wyatt looks genuinely surprised. Hurt. “We talked—by the pool and you—you sang that song—”

“It was a song, Wyatt, it doesn’t necessarily have a hidden meaning! And I wasn’t thinking about you when I was singing it anyway!”

She was thinking about a man stuck in a jail cell. A man she couldn’t reach, couldn’t hold, the man she’d promised herself she would hate and instead…

Lucy takes a deep breath. Holds it. Lets it out. “You were—you were a lifeline. You were my friend, and I was—I was suicidal, Wyatt. I was going to blow myself up in that damn ship. Take Emma and my mother with me. You told me—you told me wonderful things. You gave me validation and I’ll be honest I needed it. I needed to be told things like that because I was drowning and some nights I still am but one night, that doesn’t make a relationship. That doesn’t give you any right to judge my life choices.

“I’m—I’m sorry that it apparently meant more to you than it did to me. But you—you got the love of your life back, Wyatt. That’s the closet thing to a miracle that I’ve seen. You have a wife that you love, and she loves you, and I won’t get in the middle of that. That is not who I am. Even if I was in love with you, I wouldn’t dare. I thought that… I thought that you needed someone. To hold onto. And I did too. But now you have Jess back and you can be with her the way you need. You need to let yourself do that. And let me be with who I need.”

The thing is, she’s scared for him. Scared that Wyatt has spent so long loving the ghost of Jess that he’s forgotten what it is to love her while she’s alive—and the loyalty and work that comes with that.

“No.” Wyatt shakes his head. “My God, Flynn? Lucy? I’m not letting you—I care about you, and I can’t just turn that off. Okay? I care about you and I won’t let—”

“You won’t _let_ me? Are you from 1919 and you just failed to tell me? You’d fit right in here.”

“I’m sorry, but I have a right to point out that out of all your choices Flynn is pretty damn low on the—”

“I won’t have it!” Her patience is at an end. “I haven’t said a single word against Jess and I never would.”

“Are you seriously comparing Jess to Flynn? Do you even hear yourself?”

“What Jess is to you, Flynn is to me.” She’s on the train now, speeding into the mountain, brakes ineffectual and not caring in the slightest, wanting to crash, wanting to send up a goddamn fireball.

“He’s—“

“If you say a terrorist so help me Wyatt—“

“But how did you two even—“

“It doesn’t matter Wyatt because it’s none of your business. None of your business! How many times do I have to say it for you to understand? I love him and it’s no business of yours how it happened, it’s just your job to respect that!”

She’s breathing hard, flushed, people are staring, but all she can think about is what she just said. _I love him, I love him, I love him._

And she hadn’t even said it to Flynn. She’d said it in an argument with the man she’d thought was her friend.

“I’m in love with Flynn.” She says it just to test the words, roll them around in her mouth. She expects it to feel like a burden.

It doesn’t.

It feels like flying.

Grace walks back in, and that ends any more conversation for now. But Lucy doesn’t feel awkward.

She feels fucking elated.

 

* * *

 

He’s got Emma in his sights, he’s got her right here, right now, and he can end it all. Leave Rittenhouse without a pilot, without one of their best agents. Cripple them.

But then—

“Lucy is the target.”

No.

Rufus doesn’t look too pleased that Flynn’s giving into the idea of a partnership with Emma so easily but Flynn could give less of a flying fuck. They’re always in danger on these missions. He knows that. But this isn’t just general danger. This is an assassination attempt.

And Lucy’s a sitting duck. Even with Wyatt protecting her, he has no idea that Lucy’s got a very specific and very bright target on her back right now.

It’s up to him and Emma, if he can trust her. If one of them can get to Lucy in time.

_Sweetheart._

He won’t lose her. He can’t lose her. He’s already been broken and reforged himself, he’s already been down into the darkness and dragged back out. He can’t do it again. He will break and he will remain broken.

_You’re too far away._

He can still see her face floating in front of him, the tentative tenderness there. The way she’d kissed him, the way she hadn’t wanted to leave his arms.

_Let me be with you._

He won’t, can’t—not her. Dear God please, please, take him, he’s the one who spent a year pissing Rittenhouse off. Make it him and not her, please. Take what’s left of his soul but just leave her intact.

_Garcia._

Leave her be.

 

* * *

 

It’s done, at least. Maybe not how she’d hoped but.

It’s done. The mission is complete.

She and Wyatt say goodbye to Grace Huddleston, and then almost immediately run into Flynn and—why is Rufus clutching at his side like that?

“What the hell happened to you?” Wyatt asks.

“Apparently, invincible doesn’t mean what he thinks it means,” Flynn snaps sarcastically, looking at Rufus like Rufus is his particularly stubborn five-year-old.

Then she steps forward, and Flynn catches sight of her.

Flynn looks like he’s seen—like a ghost or something equally impossible, only wonderful instead of terrifying. Before she can even blink he’s got his hands on her waist, pulling her in and wrapping his arms around her.

She gets her arms around his neck, going up on her tiptoes, putting her weight on him. His warmth, his scent, envelops her. She wonders when he began to smell like home.

Flynn kisses her temple, her hair, her ear. “ _Moja draga_ ,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “I thought—”

She doesn’t understand what he just said. My God? Something like that? But she knows why he’s holding onto her like she’s a buoy and he’s adrift in a summer storm. “I’m okay. I’m all right. Grace saved me. Emma—Emma saved me.” Of all people.

Flynn kisses her cheek, the bolt of her jaw, just under her ear. His lips tremble where they touch her just as much as they burn, and she gets her hand to the back of his head, curling her fingers in his hair, petting, scratching lightly. “I’m okay. Garcia—sweetheart it’s all right. I’m okay.”

She doesn’t even realize the endearment is slipping out until it’s said, unconscious, only knowing that she wants to soothe him, to help him realize she’s here, she’s not going anywhere. But Flynn doesn’t seem to mind. He just tightens his hold on her slightly.

She tucks her face into his neck, and lets him hold her. Breathes him in. Lets herself shake because it really was a close call, it was, she was staring down a gun—but she’s home now. She’s safe now.

She pulls back just enough for them to rest their foreheads together. God, she missed him this mission. Wyatt is… he’s lost, it’s pretty obvious, but she refuses to be the pseudo-therapist he dumps his shit on. She’d spent every moment of it wishing it was Flynn by her side instead.

Which hurts, honestly. Because Wyatt was once her friend.

“I’m here,” she whispers again. Takes Flynn’s face in her hands. “I’m here.”

There is a very awkward cough from her right.

Oh. Yes.

She turns, Flynn still holding her, to see Wyatt pointedly looking at a spot on the wall while Rufus fakes another cough. “So,” he says. “How long has this been going on?”

“Let’s just get back to the damn Lifeboat,” Wyatt says.

“No, no, I want to know,” Rufus says. There is a dawning suspicion in his eyes. “I want to know just how long this has been going on for.”

Lucy sighs. “Yes, we fucked in Salem while you were gone, are you satisfied, Rufus?”

“Satisfied!? _Satisfied!?_ Where did you even—if you say the Lifeboat—”

Wyatt storms off in the direction of said Lifeboat, forcing all of them to follow. Flynn lets go of her but takes her hand in a death grip.

She squeezes back. Rufus keeps lecturing them, apparently extremely affronted that he was working on faulty information this whole time, telling Flynn that no wonder he was willing to work with Emma, it all makes sense now, could you white people stop fucking each other for two goddamn seconds—

Lucy runs her thumb along the side of Flynn’s hand. Squeezes again. _I’m okay. I’m here. I’m okay._

Flynn eventually relaxes his grip a bit, and squeezes back.

 

* * *

 

By the end of the day, she really just wants to see literally no one.

She had a good moment talking with Wyatt about Alice, and then he had to go and ruin it again, and she might (might) have snapped at him that if he didn’t want Jess then how about he trade her in for Amy since one of them should at least get back a family member that they appreciate, and Rufus must have blabbed to Denise or maybe Wyatt did because Denise is giving her and Flynn _very_ judgmental looks right now and Wyatt definitely told Jess because Jess apparently told Flynn ‘congratulations’ and Lucy wishes like hell she had her own house again and wasn’t sharing a bunker with everyone.

But she doesn’t have her own house. She has a room.

So she goes to said room—Flynn’s room—and lies down on the bed, and hopes a bottle of alcohol will miraculously appear in her hand.

It doesn’t.

“Lucy?” Flynn closes the door behind him—she suspects from a debriefing with Denise where he had to tell her something along the lines of ‘no officer I wasn’t banging your agent on _every_ mission’—and walks over to the bed.

She closes her eyes as she feels his hand carding through her hair. “Mm. Feels nice.”

The bed dips as Flynn sits down, continuing to pet her. “Tired?”

No. Antsy, wired, frustrated, exhausted.

She sits up, and oh look, Flynn’s in just the right position for her to swing her leg over and settle on his lap.

Mmm, this evening is already looking up.

“Hi,” she tells him, draping her arms over his shoulders.

Flynn gives her that joyful, goofy smile he gave her this morning over coffee, his arms wrapping around her waist, his hands spanning her back. “Hello yourself.”

“So I was thinking…” She rolls her hips. Flynn’s conveniently changed into sweats and a t-shirt and she’s wearing just jeans and a sweater. Far easier to get out of than their 1919 clothes. “…since everyone knows we’re together now…”

She holds her breath a little, waiting for Flynn to nitpick the word ‘together’, for him to stop her and say that’s not what they are.

But Flynn just tilts his head at her like a cat waiting for his master to please give him his treat now.

So Lucy slides her hands down his chest. “…we don’t have to worry about being quiet anymore.”

That gets her a set of raised eyebrows. “I’m not sure the rest of the bunker would appreciate such, ah, noises.”

“Oh. So Wyatt and Jessica are allowed to be as loud as they want, and we aren’t?”

Flynn’s eyes darken. Ha. She’s got him now. “You’re playing with fire, Lucy.”

“Haven’t you heard?” She leans in, her lips brushing against his. “That’s my favorite game.”

Flynn lets out a little growl and flips her, his hands at her back making sure she lands gently on the bed even as his weight pins her down. She yanks at his shirt, eager for skin again. She finally got to see him naked last night and she’s got every intention of making this a regular thing. “Think you can do it?” she asks, her breath hitching as Flynn kisses her neck. “Think you can make me scream?”

Teeth scrape at her pulse point and she shudders.

“I don’t think,” Flynn replies. “I _know_.”

Ohhh God, yes.

Flynn kisses her properly even as she reaches for him to pull his mouth to hers. He lets her get his shirt off, lets her hands roam all over his chest, his back, his shoulders (she’s rather fond of those). But then he gets a handful of her hair and tugs, angling her head back, and it’s just this side of rough and her spine melts just a little bit.

He gets his hand between her legs and she spreads them, hitching her hips up as she runs his finger along the seam of her jeans. The rough fabric presses against her and she bites her lip, a shiver wracking her body.

Flynn rubs up and down, even pressing his thumb against her clit, still through the fabric. His other hand keeps her head in place as he kisses down her throat, sucks at her collarbone, nips at the tendons in her neck. She can’t help but squirm—the rough feel of the denim is good, so good, but it’s not enough. It won’t be nearly enough.

“So many ideas,” Flynn muses.

“And yet I don’t see you doing any of them,” she shoots back.

Just like that his hands pull away and slide up her shirt, yanking at the fabric, at her bra, getting both up over her head—and trapping her wrists with them.

“Garcia.” She tugs at the fabric. It’s not really a proper hold, she could theoretically get out of this mess if she wanted to. But it’s just enough that she can’t easily reach down and touch Flynn and oh, that bastard. That’s the game they’re playing.

“Is this payback for the handcuffs?” she huffs.

Flynn places a delicate kiss between her breasts. “More like a precaution.”

“A precaution?”

Flynn rubs a circle around her nipple with his thumb, and she can feel herself flushing all over. She squirms, bucks her hips up, tries to get leverage, but Flynn’s grip is firm and she’s thrusting into nothing but air. “If I really want you to make some noise, I have to take my time with you. And let’s face it you’re not always the most patient, are you Lucy?”

Goddammit. No, she isn’t, she really isn’t.

“Garcia,” she tries, making her voice as soft and sweet as she can.

He just quirks an eyebrow at her. “Nice try.”

He pecks her on the lips, almost in an _of course dear_ kind of way, like he’s about to leave for work at the office, and then his mouth is sealing over her breast and oh mother of God she’s in for it now.

His tongue flutters around her nipple and she lets out a whimper. Flynn’s teeth scrape lightly against her breast as he lets it go with a lewd pop, then takes her other breast and bites down on it, firm but not too hard. He’d have had to be blind, deaf, and dumb not to notice that she liked it a little rough during the first, oh, six or so times they did this, and he’s bringing that knowledge into terrible action now as he moves back and forth, his fingers coming into play occasionally, adding an unexpected extra sensation that she can’t predict, that makes her moan.

She’s restlessly bucking up into him, almost but not quite kicking at him with her legs, until Flynn puts all of his weight down and oh, oh fuck that sends a thrill through her as he pins her legs, stops her from silently demanding that he take her jeans off _now_ , dammit.

He doesn’t let up, kissing up to her neck and then back down, getting her stomach, her hipbones, up to her breasts again, until she’s panting helplessly and the pressure between her legs is so hot and strong she thinks she’s going cross-eyed. “Garcia, Garcia _please_ , come on—”

“What’s my name?” Flynn asks, almost conversationally.

“Gar— _cia_!” the last part is shot up to the ceiling in surprise and pleasure as he twists a nipple between his fingers.

The next room over definitely heard that one. Lucy hopes to God that it woke Wyatt up. It would serve him right.

Apologies to Jess. Well, sort of apologies.

Flynn looks unbearably pleased with himself, and then takes her hips in his hands and lifts her up, yanking her pants and her underwear down in one movement.

Oh holy fuck that’s hot. She doesn’t even care if he ripped anything. Her thighs are literally glistening with how wet she is, the underwear was probably ruined anyway.

Flynn laps at the slick, sucks a rather large hickey into the soft skin right at the juncture of her thigh, kisses the back of her knee, her ankle, her lower stomach. in short, he gets his mouth on just about everywhere except where she most wants him.

And he knows it, the bastard.

Flynn drags a finger through her folds. Normally that would produce just a whimper, but she’s so keyed up now she actually cries out. God she wants—she wants his fingers, his mouth, everything, she’s so wound tight that she’s shaking with it. Flynn watches her with dark, worshipful eyes, his tongue darting out to just barely touch her clit.

She yanks at the fabric holding her wrists up. “I swear to God, Garcia Flynn, if you don’t—”

He drags his tongue through her folds this time instead.

“Fuck!”

Flynn kisses up her stomach, smiling as he feels it heaving with each breath. The coil at the base of her spine is hot like lava, she feels like she’s a volcano, she’s going to spillover and she just needs, she _needs_ …

One finger slides inside of her. Slow. Teasing. God she’s going to kill him, she’s going to have him fuck her and then she’s going to absolutely murder him. “Garcia…”

He kisses her thigh, and adds a second finger. He curls them, gets them just right, and she just about loses her mind. Sparks are going off everywhere inside of her. She can’t stop the noises starting to spill out, the way she’s pushing up into his fingers without thought.

Then Flynn gets his tongue in there with his fingers and oh oh _oh_.

He’s not touching her clit, he’s not getting her that release but he’s working her open with single-minded determination and it’s just driving her higher and higher.

“Can I—oh God can I touch you Garcia _please_ —”

Flynn pulls away, yanking his sweats down and crawling up to kiss her jaw, the corner of her mouth. “I’m not sure, you haven’t screamed _just_ yet…”

“Oh come on, sweetheart, please.”

It’s a bit underhanded, guessing that name gives Flynn a brain glitch, but then he’s been getting to tease her this whole time and it’s her turn to get back at him, just a little.

Flynn’s face does something wonderful as he reacts to that, his eyes going startled and soft, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Then he kisses her, surprisingly soft but deep, his tongue raking along the roof of her mouth. His hands make short work of the fabric around her wrists until she’s freed and then—oh then she can get her hands in his hair, scratch down his back, feeling those miles of firm muscle under her touch at last.

Flynn spreads her legs just a little wider, pulling his mouth away from hers to bite at her neck. She does cry out then, properly, and Flynn’s sliding into her and oh fuck oh fuck oh _fuck_ yes.

Flynn gets his hands under her ass, shifts her hips up, gets that angle that’s deep and thorough the way she likes it. The angle puts him on his knees, gets his mouth right at her breasts again, and he really doesn’t waste that opportunity—not that she thought he would.

Her hands end up in his hair as she sobs out his name. She might be making herself just a teeny bit louder than usual at first but then she stops thinking about it, calling out his name as she enters that slick golden slide down, down, down until she’s lost her mind and has no idea what she’s saying, everything disappearing except him moving inside of her, his mouth at her breasts, her hold on him.

Flynn shifts, one hand at the small of her back, the other moving between her legs and he finally, finally rubs at her clit—

She screams as she shatters, the blood in her veins shifted to lava, exploding inside of her and then sliding slip-slick through her, until she’s trembling and her toes have cramped from curling.

“ _Moja lijepa_ ,” she hears Flynn murmuring, working her through it. She clings to him, not knowing the words but hearing the meaning anyway.

She dimly notes that she’s leaking, liquid staining the sheet beneath her, and realizes Flynn came to at some point. He sets her down gently and she reaches for him, her fingers clumsy but he goes, lets her wrap her arms around him and kiss him, lazy and slow.

There’s banging on the door. “It’s bad enough when Wyatt and Jess are at it, not you two as well!” Rufus yells.

“Oh, stuff it,” Flynn shoots back. “We’ve been quiet this whole time!”

She giggles, and Flynn looks back at her, grinning, happy. She’s happy as well, she’s so happy, the cares of the day falling away as Flynn flips her one more time, so that she’s on top of him, straddling him.

“He’s going to find a way to get us back for that,” Flynn notes, his hands skimming up and down her sides.

She lets herself sink down until they’re nose to nose, her hair falling around his face, like a cocoon just for the two of them. Flynn wraps his arms around her completely, anchoring her. Keeping her safe.

“Let him,” she replies. She brushes her fingertips over the lines of his face, mapping him out. She knows his face so well by now but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.

How—how does she tell him? How can she—these words that beat at her chest from the inside, how can she let them free? They’re lodged in her throat and she wants to say them but she just—she can’t figure out how.

“Feeling better?” Flynn whispers.

“Much.” She pauses. “And—and you?” He had a hard day too, clearly, teaming up with Emma and scared he’d lose her.

Flynn’s eyes go soft and dark, twining a lock of hair around his fingers. “I wish I could keep you safe,” he admits, sounding like the words are being dragged out of him.

Funny, but she wishes the same thing. Wishes she could keep him safe from judgment, from ridicule.

“I’m safe now,” she says instead. She lies down, her head on his chest, softly kissing the skin beneath her lips. “I’m with you.”

Funny how those two have come to mean the same thing. Flynn and safety.

 _I love you_ , she thinks. _I love you so much I’m surprised it doesn’t hurt._

She kisses his chest again as Flynn’s hand cards through her hair. Is this the right time? Should she say it now? Can she say it now?

Or will it just ruin the moment?

Flynn seems—he seems happy. And she’s happy. And she’s scared because she can’t—she can’t ruin this by—

She’ll figure out a better time. A time when they’re not tired, when Flynn won’t think it’s just that she’s coming off a post-sex high, when—when it’s better.

She falls asleep with his heartbeat in her ear, his hand in her hair.

She’ll tell him. Soon.


	10. The Day Reagan Was Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did someone say journal talk?

Flynn doesn’t ask Lucy to move in. Not in so many words. She spends every night in his bed anyway, everyone knows they’re together, but he doesn’t want to rock the boat when she hasn’t asked, when her clothes are still in the room she was sharing with Jiya—

He clears out two dresser drawers instead, leaving them open so Lucy can see they’re empty. When she notices, she stops in the middle of a sentence and stares at the empty space for a solid minute before breaking into a smile so beautiful that he can hardly stand to look. She doesn’t say anything in response, just pushes him back on the bed and kisses him breathless, but the next day the drawers aren’t empty anymore. 

And Flynn is happy. Happier than he’s been in years. The guilt is still there, the dark voice that whispers he doesn’t deserve this, that Lucy could do better, that he’s betraying his family—but Lucy chose him. She chose him, she wants him, and she has suffered enough. He can’t push her away or deny her when it’s so easy to give her what she wants.

His heart was hers long before she asked for it, after all. 

Not that everything is perfect. They both have demons—some shared, some not—demons that like to rear their heads at night, in dreams. Flynn is...used to his at least. The first time Lucy shakes him out of a nightmare-that-isn’t—a memory frozen in painful, perfect time—there are tears on her face and a tightness in his chest, and while ordinarily he would just get up and walk it off, he lets her hold him instead. It takes nearly an hour to recover enough English to explain that it wasn’t his family or Rittenhouse, but an older wound. That the scars on his heart are as many and varied as the ones on his body. 

When Lucy is the one to wake up crying, she rarely wants to talk at first. And Flynn has learned when to catch her wandering hands and stay her kisses, when to insist on talking, and when to let it go, to let her instead fuck him until she can’t bury her feelings anymore. 

It’s not perfect. But it’s theirs. Their relationship is the one thing they have control over, their room the one place they can truly find solitude and peace. The others—some of them understand and some don’t, but that doesn’t matter. As long as Lucy wants him, he’s not going anywhere. 

Flynn loves her. He doesn’t say those words either, even as they sit on the tip of his tongue, at the front of his mind. They are an all-consuming truth, his lodestar, but just as with moving in, he doesn’t want to push too far, too fast, eternally afraid that she’ll wake up and change her mind. So he says them in other ways—with coffee in the morning, with his hands on her shoulders working out knots when she’s been working too long, with soft, lazy kisses and endearments she doesn’t understand—

He loves her. Sometimes, he thinks she loves him, too. 

“I don’t want to go,” Lucy confesses after the Mothership jumps to 1981, her arms wrapped tight around his waist as they steal a private moment in the corner of the Lifeboat bay. “Not without you. I don’t—what if—”

Flynn hears what she can’t quite say. What if something changes? What if when she comes back, he isn’t there? What if his memories are different and they aren’t together? 

What if?

His stomach twists—he hates that there’s nothing he can say, no way to reassure her. Because it doesn’t matter whether Rittenhouse is going after Reagan or one of their ancestors—any change is a risk. Any change.

(He tries not to think about the journal. About the Lucy who gave it to him. About the things she said and those she didn’t.)

Flynn kisses the top of her head instead, holds her close until she tips her face up to be properly kissed. 

“Be safe,” he says when the kiss breaks, stepping back when Jiya calls for her from the Lifeboat. “I—”

_Love you._

He swallows hard and Lucy’s eyes search his face. “Yes?”

He shakes his head. “Later,” he promises. “Go on. I’ll...hold down the fort.”

Lucy kisses him one last time, then turns to walk to the Lifeboat. And then, she’s gone. 

“You know,” Connor says after the air settles. “Not to pass judgment, but if there were ever a time for a love confession…”

“But you’re not passing judgment, so it’s hardly your business, is it?” Flynn replies, prickling uncomfortably at the fact that Lucy has only Wyatt to protect her and all the rest of them. 

Connor holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “No need to get snippy, it was merely an observation.” 

It’s probably for the best that Denise walks in when she does. Then, at least, they have things to talk about other than Flynn’s love life.

Although...perhaps he should be careful what he wishes for.

* * *

It’s not about Reagan. It’s Denise. It’s all about Denise.

Lucy feels sick when she realizes—she was already worried about Flynn, about coming back to find things changed—but if Rittenhouse is after Denise—

It would change everything. There would be no team, no bunker—maybe Flynn would still have gone after Rittenhouse, maybe he even might have succeeded without their interference, but he wouldn’t be—they wouldn’t be—

“Are you okay?” Jiya asks outside Denise’s house. It’s been a long day, full of a lot of emotional moments both with Denise herself and otherwise. Wyatt and Rufus have been gone for hours and all Lucy wants is to fix this, to go home.

To go home to Flynn. 

“I’m fine,” Lucy says. “I just—let’s get this done.”

She hasn’t told him she loves him. She hasn’t asked him about the journal that she never read. There is so much she doesn’t know, hasn’t said, hasn’t done—

However it happened, Flynn became her future. And now she could lose that. She could lose all of it. 

She can’t let that happen. She won’t. Just like she won’t let Denise lose her future either. 

Her hand tightens around the flash drive in her purse. 

“It’ll be okay,” Jiya says. “This is going to work.”

“I know. I know it will.” 

It will. It has to.

It does. 

Lucy knows it worked the moment the Lifeboat doors open, even before Denise walks around the corner. Her eyes light on Flynn where he leans against the wall. There’s no way she could mistake the look on his face—soft and adoring like she’s the only woman in the world—and her heart breaks and heals over in an instant. 

_That’s not a threat, it’s your future._

Her future. Hers.

God, she loves him. She loves him so much that for a moment, holding his gaze across the room, she can’t even breathe. 

She loves him. 

And she needs him to know.

No more waiting. No more hiding. She’s going to do everything she’s been putting off—ask about the journal, tell him she loves him, and then—well. Anything could happen then. 

Lucy finds Flynn in his room. Their room. 

He sets aside the book he was reading and she’s across the room before the door is even fully shut, sliding into his lap and kissing him. Once isn’t enough so she kisses him again and again and again, the giddiness of relief bubbling up inside her. 

“I missed you,” she says when she finally pulls away. “I don’t—I don’t like not having you on these trips. I know you couldn’t, but—”

“It’s okay,” Flynn replies, kissing her softly. “I don’t like it either. But you’re okay, I’m okay. We’re—we’re okay.” 

Lucy slides her hands up his chest, not trying to start anything, just wanting to touch him, to feel the strength of him, the solidity. To feel how real he is. 

“When you gave me the journal,” she starts quietly, “you said that you got it from me. I want—I want to know what you meant by that. I want to know everything.”

Flynn goes still. 

“Are you sure?” He asks. “You really want to know?”

It’s a fair question. She hasn’t exactly reacted well the other times he’s brought up the journal. But now—she’s not afraid now. She’s not afraid of the journal, of this, of them. 

Of the future.

“Yes. I do.” 

Flynn clears his throat, catches her hands and kisses them before gently lifting her out of his lap. Lucy tamps down on the twist in her gut, watches him pace the length of the room once, twice—

What could possibly be so bad? That he can’t have her close while he talks about this, that he can’t just say it, whatever it is. 

“Garcia?”

“It was, uh, it was two weeks after my family was killed,” Flynn says, and Lucy swallows hard. Oh. 

“I was alone,” he continues. “In hiding—the only thing keeping me from killing myself was the idea of stopping these beasts who had done this thing. At that point I had no plans. I ran as far as I could, ended up in a bar in São Paulo, Brazil.”

Lucy’s heart breaks all over again at the image, at the thought of him alone in the dark, hurting, grieving, not knowing where to turn. It’s hardly any wonder, is it? That he would be willing to trust the word of a stranger? She certainly can’t blame him. 

“I was on my third drink when you walked in.” Flynn looks at her, then away again. “You looked maybe five years older than you look now, but no less—” Beautiful. “—you looked good. You told me your name, you—you knew everything. How my family died, that Rittenhouse was behind all of this. You told me there was a way for me to stop them. And that to do it I was going to need your help. And that’s when you handed me the journal. So, Lucy...you started all of it.”

Flynn has no reason to lie to her. Not now, not about this. But it doesn’t make sense. They can’t travel on their own timelines, and even if they figured it out, why would she—

“What else?” Lucy asks. “What am I missing? What aren’t you telling me?”

Flynn rubs at the back of his neck, walking over to sit on the edge of the bed.

“It’s complicated.”

“So is time travel,” she points out. “Explain it. Why did I—what else did I say? What happened after that?”

“You left,” Flynn replies. “But I—I followed you. I wanted more answers, and not from a book. I wanted—I wanted to see your face so I could decide if you were telling the truth. I wanted to understand—”

He cuts himself off, swipes a hand over his face. Lucy feels like she’s on the edge of a whole new cliff, but unlike the night they first made love, she’s shaky—this fall might hurt. 

“Understand what?” She forces herself to ask anyway, and he finally looks up at her.

“Understand why every time you looked at me, you seemed seconds away from crying.”

“I—Flynn—”

She’s on a train, moving too fast, speeding toward an immovable object, but she isn’t looking away, isn’t trying to steer, doesn’t think she even can—

“You said we were winning, but then we weren’t,” Flynn admits. “And that regardless, the price was too high, that you came back to change it, that you had to fix it—you didn’t say exactly what, but—”

“But you guessed.” It’s not a question. And once again Flynn isn’t looking at her. 

“There was an uneven step,” he says, his voice far away. “Coming into the place I was staying—you tripped, I caught you, and—and you kissed me. Like you couldn’t help yourself. And I—I was going to push you away, but you were—you were lost and broken and so was I, and so I didn’t. I kissed you back. And in the morning, you showed me your time machine to prove it was real and you left.”

Lucy takes a breath and lets it out shakily, running her hands through her hair. 

_The price was too high._

_You kissed me. Like you couldn’t help yourself._

There are threads coming together in her mind, connections being drawn, but she doesn’t want to acknowledge them, doesn’t want to think, because if she’s right, that would mean—

_The price was too high._

Lucy thinks half-wildly that if she lost him, she would burn down the world too, would damn any time stream that dared take him away from her. Win or lose.

No. It won’t happen. She won’t let it. 

(It should terrify her, that he matters that much, that she loves him that much, and in a way it does, but it’s also just...right.)

“Lucy…?”

She walks over to the bed, tips his face up to her, reads the truth in his face—

And then, she kisses him. 

There is no softness in it—it’s fierce, a claim, a challenge, a dare to the universe. He is hers. _Hers_. And no one is going to take him, certainly not Rittenhouse. His future is not to die in this fight. She won’t allow it. 

“Lucy—” Flynn’s hands come up to skim her waist, her hips, and Lucy catches his hands, pinning them above his head when she straddles him and pushes him back. 

“Leave them there,” she orders, and Flynn shudders, his eyes closing. 

“Lucy…”

Lucy kisses him again, harder, licks into his mouth, mapping every crevice with her tongue. She gets his shirt off, kisses down his neck, his chest—she wants to put her mouth on every inch of him and dammit, she will. 

_Mine_ , she thinks as she drags her teeth roughly over his pulse point, soothing it with her tongue afterwards. 

_Mine_ , as she sucks a mark into his chest. 

_Mine_ , as her tongue traces the line of his waistband, as she shucks his pants, as she swallows him down without warning. 

“Christ, Lucy—” Flynn’s hands curl into the pillow instead of reaching for her and Lucy hums around him. Good. Another time, she might play more, actually explore this piece of her that likes being in control, the piece of him that seems to like letting her. But not now. She’s too wild, too frantic for the patience that would entail. This is about reminding herself that he’s here, that he’s alive, that he’s hers.

She stops short of letting him come, pulling off and removing her own clothes before straddling him again. 

“Okay,” Lucy says. “You can touch.” 

It’s like flicking a switch—Flynn arches up beneath her, claiming her mouth as his hands travel over her, one ultimately slipping between her thighs so his fingers can work her open. A minute later, she bats the same hand away in favor of sinking down on him, riding him hard and fast, taking and taking and taking—

After, the way she kisses him is an apology. Soft. Slow. Her skin feels too tight, her eyes burn with unshed tears, and she buries her face in his neck as he holds her tight, her fingers tracing patterns on his back. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She asks quietly once her pulse stops racing. 

“That we slept together or...the other thing?”

“Either. Both.”

Flynn sighs. “To the first, when we were strangers it didn’t seem reasonable to say and once we weren’t—Lucy, it didn’t—both of us were thinking about someone else, it was nothing like it is with us now. I didn’t know how to say. And to the second...you wanted to change it, and plenty of things have already changed. The journal didn’t say everything, but by the time I got to certain events, they played out differently for us than they did in that book. Nothing is set in stone.” 

Lucy wishes she could make him promise not to leave her. But Jiya is the one who can see the future, not either of them, and the team already has one death premonition lingering over them. She can promise though. She can promise herself that she’ll do anything to not let it happen. Garcia Flynn is not dying on her watch. They can save the people they love. That has to include each other.

“Garcia?” He presses a kiss to her hair in response. “Do you understand—do you have any idea how much I love you?”

There. The words are out. Lucy holds her breath as Flynn pulls back to look at her, the same unbearably soft look from earlier back in his eyes. He passes his thumb over her cheek and tips her chin up so he can kiss her.

“I’m starting to.”


	11. The General

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We should... probably be more careful,” he notes as they start off.
> 
> “What do you mean?”
> 
> “About... it’s not foolproof. Your birth control.”

Her day could have, Lucy’s sure, started out better.

For one thing, being summoned to an important meeting from which your... significant other, is banned, is all kinds of annoying. Denise conveniently waits until Flynn’s in the shower to hold this little talk and Lucy doesn’t appreciate it. Flynn deserves to be kept in the loop and he’s not an unreasonable man. He knows how to be calculating, how to pick his targets. Or is she the only one who remembers what happened? Flynn would always take his shot, yes. But he didn’t just shoot first and ask questions later. There’s a difference.

And surely he’ll appreciate that there are other possible answers here. Rittenhouse could very well have been spying on Jess since she is, after all, the wife of one of the people digging a thorn into Rittenhouse’s side. He’s not just going to grab a gun and shoot her without reason. That’s not who Flynn is.

And then there’s the other thing. She doesn’t—Jess is her friend. Jess tells embarrassing stories about Wyatt and mixes them all drinks and helps with shopping because she can actually leave the bunker and watches crappy TV with Lucy and Jiya and cracks bad jokes.

She likes Jess.

And then Wyatt drops the biggest bomb of all:

Jess is pregnant.

Yeah. This day could have started a lot better, thanks.

 

* * *

 

She hates to say it, but working to stop the death of Harriet Tubman in the Civil War actually makes the day better.

Sure, there are men dying all around them, the mosquitos are vicious and she’s got no bug repellant, it’s hot as fuck and Wyatt’s being Mr. Broody McBrooderson, but she gets to meet Harriet Tubman.

Flynn braces one leg on the steps of the house, leaning on his knees. He always takes care to find a way to get down to her level, to not loom over her. Not that she minds all that much when he looms. His height is one of the things she finds annoyingly attractive, especially now that she’s allowed to climb him like an enthusiastic squirrel in mating season.

“What’s she doing?” he asks, carefully not looking up at Tubman. She’s suspicious enough of them as it is, they don’t need to make it worse by being blatant that they’re talking about her.

“She knows all sorts of herbal remedies,” Lucy whispers in response. “She was a nurse, a cook, a spy, a soldier…” She swallows, rage hitting her at the injustice she’s about to speak. So many injustices. “She had to fight for a military pension. Still didn’t get it. Died in poverty.”

It’s so unfair it makes her throat and stomach burn with fire. If they’re going back in time and changing things they should at least be able to get justice for the heroes that deserve it. And yet, all they do is scramble and fall behind the eight ball.

“If she goes on this raid,” Flynn notes, “she’s going to die a lot sooner than that.”

Lucy gives him a look. Flynn is many wonderful things but he tends to point out the half-empty part of the glass, as if the rest of them can’t see it for themselves.

Wyatt interrupts then, and for a moment she wants to strangle him, but it turns out he’s got a kid with vital information. Tubman isn’t easy to persuade, but the manage to get her to agree to do things their way, for the moment.

Time isn’t on their side, though. So she asks Wyatt if he and Rufus can stick with Tubman while she and Flynn ride to Port Royal, see if they can convince Colonel Montgomery to give Tubman the troops she needs for the raid.

Wyatt’s response to this, of course, is to focus not on the mission but to nitpick her personal choices. “You and Flynn? Of course.”

She swallows her anger. “You and Rufus are a better team.”

“Yeah.” Wyatt’s tone is dripping with disdain. “I suppose we are.”

Y’know, she wasn’t _planning_ on fucking Flynn in the middle of a mission but she just might, if it’ll spite Wyatt.

She’d forgotten that favorite habit of straight white men: acting like rejection was a personal affront against their very existence. She doesn’t understand why Wyatt is still so pissed about her being with Flynn when it’s not like she could even be with Wyatt if she wanted to. Given that. Y’know. Jess is a person who now exists and has feelings and is deserving of basic respect. But who can fathom what Wyatt’s even thinking anymore. She sure can’t.

She avoids Wyatt’s help, finally getting the hang of pulling herself up onto a horse—insert joke about mounting Flynn here, she thinks.

“I appreciate you trying,” Tubman says as Flynn rides up in his own horse, “but Colonel Montgomery ain’t coming back. He has new orders.”

“He’ll come back when I tell him what’ll happen if he doesn’t.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

“That the Union will lose the war.”

“Confederate territory the entire way,” Wyatt says, staring Flynn down and taking a step forward.

“I can handle a couple of farmers playing soldiers,” Flynn replies.

“Just… be careful.” Wyatt looks at her as he says it.

Lucy sighs inwardly. He was her friend, she reminds herself. “We’ll be back with reinforcements.”

“Don’t start the party without us,” Flynn adds.

And finally, she’s away from Wyatt and it’s just her and Flynn and she can breathe.

The ride isn’t easy. It is, as Wyatt said, confederate territory all the way. But Flynn keeps a lookout and he’s considerate of Lucy’s lack of riding practice.

She can ride a horse just fine, it’s not that. It’s that she’s only had to ride one this hard and this long when they were after Flynn and Jesse James, and her ass and thighs hurt for goddamn days afterwards. Riding a horse for a quick ride is one thing. Riding one all day is quite another.

Flynn insists that they stop for lunch, make a picnic out of the food they packed.

They find a little spot, a meadow off the road, surrounded by trees so that nobody will find them and ask questions they can’t answer. Flynn’s accent will make him stick out like a sore thumb and the soldiers around here will definitely be of the ‘shoot first ask questions later’ variety.

“I hate this dress,” she grumbles, trying to settle on the grass. She can feel the weight of the bunker, of the relationship drama, of saving the world start to lift as she breathes in the fresh air, listens to the wind softly rustling the leaves.

Flynn glances over at her, amusement in his eyes. “You look better in red.”

“If we were somewhere else I’d ask if you thought I’d look better with this off,” she replies, startling herself at her own boldness. She’s still—she’s not used to this casual aspect of flirting. At stating not just her intentions but her knowledge that Flynn openly wants her, would have her, and will have her later.

Hunger flashes like a wolf across Flynn’s face and he looks away, out through the trees. “We can’t stay too long.”

She hums. No, he’s right, they can’t. But this setting would be idyllic, romantic even, under any other circumstance. They’ve eaten, and the horses could use a little longer of a rest. And Flynn does wear historical clothing rather well…

Lucy reaches up, undoes her hair. It’ll be easy enough to tame it again, in a simple bun like this. She’s been practicing every historical hairstyle under the sun in the bunker so she can do her hair up quickly by herself when they jump. She runs a hand through it, and pretends she doesn’t notice Flynn watching her out of the side of his eyes.

He’s so obvious. And a dork about it, underneath it all. She thinks about how she used to be a bit intimidated by him and wants to laugh. This man might as well be a kitten in her hands at this point.

At least, sexually, anyway. She still—he hasn’t said that he loves her. She thought he’d say it, when she told him, but—but he hasn’t. And it’s been days since then. She keeps hoping… and the way he looks at her, the way he holds her, how he silently asked her to move in with him and made room for her, how he massages her shoulders and makes her coffee, how he stays up reading through history books with her…

It has to mean… something? Doesn’t it?

But he still hasn’t _said_ it.

It calls up a host of terrifying possibilities, and she feels a sudden rush of sympathy for Wyatt, of all people. He was—well she wouldn’t presume to say in love with her but he felt something for her, something he thought she felt in return, and she didn’t. Finding out you have deeper feelings for your crush than they have for you, it’s not fun.

And now she fears she might be in the same situation. Giving more than Flynn wants to receive.

After all what kind of person—what kind of love does it take for someone to go back through time, take whatever pain and risks come with traveling on one’s own timeline, to hopefully save a man after the war was already won, knowing it might screw it all up, knowing the war won’t go the same way, that it all might collapse?

What if Flynn doesn’t want that kind of love from her? What if he feels burdened by it?

“Lucy?” Flynn reaches across and takes her hand. His thumb rubs warm, soothing circles into her palm. “What is it?”

She looks up at him. Her fears cram up in her throat. She’s out in an open field and yet suddenly she is suffocating. She can’t breathe.

“Wyatt was—he still can’t accept us,” she blurts out, because it’s somewhat connected to her train of thought and it’s the first thing that pops into her head to distract him with.

Flynn rolls his eyes. “Don’t let it get to you. The man’s got problems, it’s not your fault he’s trying to dump them on you.”

It’s a fair point, and she remembers her irritation at Wyatt all over again. So what if she chooses to go with Flynn? It wasn’t about sex. She’s the leader, goddammit, and she made the executive decision because Wyatt and Rufus make the best team, there’s no interpersonal issues like with Wyatt and Flynn or Wyatt and herself, and she and Flynn do, to quote the man himself (and apparently her future self) make quite the team.

It wasn’t about sex.

(And yet. If she truly wants to give Wyatt the middle finger...)

She runs a hand through her hair, aware of the heat in Flynn’s gaze as he watches her—he does love to get a good handful and tug, or just slowly untangle it and work his fingers through it when they lie in bed—and lets herself think very intently about that time she blew him in the shower.

Flynn raises an eyebrow at her as if to say _oh, really? Here? Now?_

Lucy shrugs. “If the dress isn’t too much of a turn off...”

Flynn’s dark eyes dance with mirth. “I think I’ll manage.”

She kisses him, takes his face into her hands, feels the thrill she’d get when they first started doing this, rushed in semi-public places with clothes barely shoved out of the way.

Except now—this is no twisted apology, no way to get the stubborn time bandit on his knees. It’s the man she loves. The man with whom she is in love.

Flynn’s hands shove her skirts up so that he can skim his fingers up and down her thighs. She feels hot, sticky-sweet like honey, like the humid summer air around them. She’s getting good at undoing historical clothes, specifically historical pants, and she gets him hot in her hand, branding her palm, as they kiss and they kiss and they kiss until she’s punch drunk and her blood is thick and molten.

The dress, and Flynn’s clothes, aren’t ideal for things like this. He can’t get his mouth on her neck the way he likes and it makes him growl in frustration, and she can’t get her hands (and nails) on his chest. But his hands are on her ass, her hips, guiding her as she rides him, and she messes up his hair and his mouth in her own turn. She braces herself on the grass, staining her hands, her mouth falling open, and she feels like they’re outside of time and she wants to stay there, away from it all, in this molasses-rich bubble, with the man she loves, loves, _loves_.

She tastes sugar as she comes.

Flynn flips her over with a grunt and fucks into her, rough and messy, and she sucks the sweat from his jaw, feels the beginning of stubble against her tongue, shudders as she feels him spill into her.

It makes a thought hit her and she feels an odd thrill of fear. She took her shot, right? She upped it? She counts backwards—

Yes. Yes, she’s fine. She should be fine.

But Jess...

It’s not fair that Flynn doesn’t know that, at least. She mentions it as they clean themselves up, corral the horses.

“Wyatt told us this morning that Jess is pregnant.”

Flynn freezes. “She’s...” He wets his lips. “Ah.”

“I figured he wouldn’t tell you but you should know.”

Flynn isn’t looking at her. “I suppose they’re happy.”

“I suppose so.” She honestly doesn’t know.

Flynn turns, and she automatically lifts her arms, bracing herself on his shoulders as he lifts her up onto her horse. He then gets up onto his.

“We should... probably be more careful,” he notes as they start off.

“What do you mean?”

“About... it’s not foolproof. Your birth control.”

She stares at him. “Are you worried I’ll get pregnant?”

“I think it’s a fair concern. We can’t have kids.”

She swallows. Of course it’s not the right time, she doesn’t want a child right this moment, but... “What do you mean, we can’t?”

Flynn looks at her as if this should be obvious. “Oh, come on, Lucy. You can’t think that’s the right decision.”

She might throw up. “So, what, you want to carry condoms in the Lifeboat or something?” Rufus would murder them both.

“Maybe not in the Lifeboat, but…”

They haven’t actually ever used condoms, now that she thinks about it. Well then. She’ll ponder that level of recklessness later. Much later. “Well what if I wanted kids?”

Flynn looks like a goldfish that just got plopped on land. “Do you?”

“I—well not right this second—”

“Then why is it even something we’re talking about?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you’re at Defcon 4 over it?”

“I have a right to be! Lucy, I don’t want you getting pregnant!”

She yanks on the reins, bringing her horse to a stop. Flynn’s horse stumbles as he manages to bring his to a stop as well, turning his horse back so he can face her. She can feel herself starting to cry. “You don’t want me to get pregnant.”

Flynn looks at a complete loss for words, but in that supremely annoying way, where he’s telling her two plus two equals four and she’s insisting it’s five and he’s out of ways to explain it to her.

“Is this about you not being able to be a father?” she whispers. She can still hear his words in her head. They echoed for days. She still remembers him yelling at her _move, move!_ and her insistence that no. No, he could still be a father. But not if she let him do this.

Flynn swallows, pain digging deep into his face for an instant before his expression smoothes out, calms. “No.”

“So it’s about me.”

“Well who else would it be about?”

And the truth hits her square in the face.

_Who else would it be about?_

How could she have been so stupid?

She would rip time apart for him. Restart and possibly lose a war for him. She will burn the Hindenburg and all the rest down herself (instead of just by proxy) if the world takes him from her.

_Do you know how much I love you?_

_I’m starting to._

But oh. Oh, you stupid girl. He doesn’t love you back.

He had a family and he lost it and he wants that one back. Why would she think he’d want to start one with her? She’s—she’s not even a replacement, she’s the consolation prize while they’re in this situation, they’re two people in the trenches. You fuck in the trenches and you hold each other when the bombs go off but you go home to your real girl, the one who wrote you faithfully while you were off fighting the good fight.

She’s not the girl back home. She’s the soldier in the trenches.

She feels like a child all over again, showing her mom her history report, watching Carol fill it with red ink until the paper looks like it’s bleeding. Carol never said it but Lucy heard it anyway: _stupid, not good enough, silly girl._

She grabs the reins and digs in her heels.

“Lucy?” Flynn sounds like he’s run into a wall and hit his head and is stumbling with confusion as to how it happened.

She doesn’t look back.

She just rides.

 

* * *

 

Lucy doesn’t speak to him for the rest of the ride.

They get to Colonel Montgomery, who is about as smart as the average fish—which is to say, not a lot and skittish above all else—and Lucy is pointedly keeping her gaze on the ground. Her face is a cold mask.

“You come to me without official orders, no identification of any kind, one of you with an accent I can’t quite place…” Flynn can literally feel the colonel searching for the nicest way to mention Flynn’s accent. “…and expect me to send my regiment back to where we narrowly escaped death after being ambushed by a Confederate cavalry—”

“Well you don’t have to be so glass half empty,” Flynn points out.

“Who the hell are you people?”

“We’re Union spies.”

“With no papers.”

“Because we are _spies_.” Jesus and Mother Mary and all the goddamn saints and hey Satan while we’re at it, is the man really this thick?

“Colonel Montgomery. Sir.” Lucy bobs a half-curtsy, as if she’s just remembered what time period she’s in. “Harriet Tubman and your men are risking their lives for this raid.”

“My regiment’s been ordered to Port Hudson first thing tomorrow. You change that order, I’ll change that plan.”

“Harriet Tubman needs you.” Ah, there’s the firecracker. Flynn has to stifle his smile. “And the Union needs her. There are more than seven hundred and fifty slaves working on the river plantation who are willing to fight and you are going to need those men at Fort Wagner, Vicksburg, and Petersburg.”

“Who are you, miss? To speak to me that way?”

Flynn takes a small step forward. He doesn’t care what time period they’re in or if they’re talking to fucking Queen Victoria. People are going to start talking to Lucy with respect.

Lucy, for once, doesn’t wilt. “I’m someone who knows what the hell she’s talking about,” she snaps.

That’s his girl.

Montgomery finally gets his ass in gear, and surprisingly enough concedes to letting Lucy and Flynn ride in front with him.

Flynn tries to help Lucy onto her horse again, but is rebuffed. “I’ve got it.”

He watches as she swings up onto the saddle without a hitch. He gets onto his own horse, still watching her.

It’s so easy to imagine. Lucy throwing up in the toilet, unsure at first but testing, making sure. Picking out little, impossibly little clothes. Pressing his ear to her stomach, feeling the kicks. A baby with Lucy’s sharp eyes, with her thick dark hair.

But he can also imagine the rest.

_“I think Iris is coming down with something.”_

_“Mm… she’s fine.”_

_“She’s not fine, she just coughed. I’m going to check.”_

Lucy was stabbed in Salem and spent days in a fever, screaming in pain, unable to recognize anyone. She’s almost gotten shot—Wyatt and Rufus both have, it’s a miracle she’s gone this long without taking a bullet. She’s nearly been hanged, hatcheted, burned, beaten, and shot.

If he loses her—oh God please don’t let him lose her—but if he lost her and another child—

He’d lie down with her and die. He nearly did that, with Lorena and Iris. He nearly laid down with them and died. He can’t do that a second time. There will be no angel to save him, to give him the key, to keep his heavy feet walking. If Lucy and any child they have or are about to have dies, he will die with them. It’s like a universal truth. Like gravity.

And time travel? What do any of them know about time travel? Jiya’s losing her mind with visions. Traveling on your own time, if you ask Mason, turns you into goop. What about all those astronauts who spent too long in space, who lie in hospital beds pressing the morphine button, in endless pain? What if that’s their fate—and if it is then what would that do to a fetus?

And what if—what if they were on a mission and her water broke? What if she went into labor early? They’re in the past and labor is dangerous enough in the 21st century. What if she dies, bleeds out, because they can’t get her to a proper hospital because they’re in the fucking 15th century or what the hell ever?

It makes him feel like he’s standing at the edge of an abyss, darkness below, howling, swirling darkness, and he can’t look down but he also can’t look away.

Lucy doesn’t so much as glance at him all the way back to the plantation. It seems that when Lucy is angry, or hurt, or both, she doesn’t go hot. She goes cold.

Maybe it’s a risk that she’s willing to take. Maybe she wants a family soon, but—but he can’t. He wants to be a father so badly, he loved being a father and God help him because he knows he doesn’t deserve another child but he craves one. But he can’t put his own desires above the health of the woman he loves, or the health of that potential child. He won’t.

There’ll be time, later, for a child. But Lucy, oh God, Lucy, he won’t put her into that realm of risk.

It seems, though, that this is something they’re going to disagree upon. And disagree mightily.

“I’ll take the couch tonight,” Lucy says quietly as they get into the Lifeboat.

Rufus overhears and the look on his face would normally be priceless but right now it just makes Flynn want to cuff him. Just a little.

Lucy deigns to let him buckle her into her seat, and then stares at the wall. She looks like she’s seconds away from crying.

Flynn wants to grab her, to shake her, to ask _what, what did I say, how is this even an argument?_

But he’s not going to invade her space like that when she clearly wants distance, and he’s definitely not going to do it in front of Wyatt ‘I Staked My Claim’ Logan.

So he just sits back and feels the lurch of the Lifeboat.

It matches the lurch in his stomach.

 

* * *

 

Jess and Jiya notice immediately that something is wrong.

“It’s a new Real Housewives,” Jess says quietly, sidling up to her after a rather strained dinner. Everyone’s been trying very hard to act like they don’t suspect she’s Rittenhouse, but Rufus for one is failing miserably. Something happened with Mason and Jiya because they’re not speaking to each other and Mason looks rather shaken. Denise left to go home to her family so she’s not there, which Lucy supposes is a silver lining. Wyatt’s pissed that any of them think for even a second that Jess could turn on them, and he’s pissed at Flynn which, well, he always is.

Flynn just straight up fixed himself food and then went to eat in the bedroom.

“I’m okay,” Lucy says, except she’s not okay. Not at all.

Jess snorts. “Okay, then we’ll pretend we’re doing it for Jiya’s sake, how’s that sound?”

Lucy focuses back in on the dishes she’s washing in the sink.

Jess pokes her in the arm. “Hey. C’mon. I’ll fix you a drink.”

Lucy sighs. “All right. But just the one episode.”

Jiya shoos away the men and plops onto one end of the couch. Jess takes the other and hauls Lucy sideways into her lap, giving her a tight hug. Jess, they have found, likes being taller than Lucy and Jiya and likes that she can pull them into her lap and hug them and play with their hair. She’s rather tactile that way and Lucy sees how Wyatt responds to it, even if he doesn’t realize it himself. He curls into her touch like a starved cat, lays his head on her shoulder, her stomach, grabs her hand, looks blissful when she pets his hair.

Lucy can’t help but wonder if that’s what she looks like when Flynn touches her. Christ, the whole bunker must see how stupid for him she is.

Her stomach churns. “I should go get a blanket.”

“What for?” Jiya asks.

“I’m taking the couch tonight.” She can’t, no matter how upset she is, kick Flynn out of bed when he’s literally a foot taller than the length of the couch. If one of them is getting banished, it’s unfortunately her.

Jess and Jiya stare at her.

“You can’t,” Jess says at last.

“Why not?” It’s her relationship, after all.

“Because I’ll be working,” Jiya blurts out. “All night. Lights on and everything. You won’t sleep.”

“I’ll take some sleeping pills.”

“What happened?” Jess asks.

Lucy looks at Jiya, who has her eyebrows drawn together in concern. She looks at Jess, who is holding Lucy like she’s a five-year-old who scraped her knee and needs Mom to kiss it better.

And she bursts into tears.

“Oh _no_ ,” Jiya blurts out, hurrying to the kitchen and grabbing the ice cream out of the fridge.

Jess pets her hair. “It’s okay, Lucy. Just let it out.”

The whole awful story comes spilling out—how she said she loves Flynn but he didn’t say it back, how she told him about Jess’s pregnancy and he panicked and insisted they start using condoms, that her birth control wasn’t enough, how they argued, how horribly, horribly empty she feels inside.

“I’m going to kill him,” Jiya announces.

“No, you’re going to watch trashy TV with us,” Jess says. She wipes at Lucy’s eyes. “Hey, it’s gonna be okay. He’s gonna come around. Men are stupid.”

“I hate that I like dick so much,” Jiya mutters.

“You’re going to have a nice stiff drink and some ice cream,” Jess continues, “and it’ll all feel better in the morning.”

That’s the thing though—she doesn’t know if it will.

After all, how can you feel better about loving someone who doesn’t, who can’t, feel the same way back?

Flynn’s heart was buried with Lorena and Iris. It’s impossible for him to give his love to her when that love is dead. She knows she shouldn’t be angry with him, she knew from the first that Flynn’s loyalty and love are twin dragons, creatures elevated to myth for their cunning and destruction, and to think that—to presume that they could ever be given to her—such emotions are tamed once if at all and she’s certainly not enough to—

She finishes crying about halfway through the episode, and then just eats ice cream dully as Jess rubs her back and Jiya makes color commentary. It’s not enough to make her laugh but it’s… it’s something. It’s a distraction.

Jiya does in fact go to work afterwards, but Jess gets her a blanket and two sleeping pills. “Just you wait,” she promises. “You’ll wake up in three hours to him groveling at your feet.”

Unlikely. But she smiles, understanding that Jess is well-meaning, and lets the sweet embrace of chemicals drag her under to sleep.

She doesn’t dream.

 

* * *

 

Flynn half-expects Lucy to come barging in, fire and fury, ready to have at him again.

He does not expect Jiya to literally try to kick his door open.

She fails, because these are heavy motherfucking doors. But he hears the thump, then cursing, and then the door is yanked open the normal way and Jiya is storming into the room.

Jess stands behind her, looking apologetic.

“You,” Jiya accuses, her finger jabbing into his chest. He’s sitting down on the bed and pretending he’s not brooding as he reads the same page in a book over and over again, so she’s a couple inches taller than he is at the moment. “You gargantuan, clumsy, oafish, pea-brained, walking human disaster, definition of _idiot_.”

“I’m flattered. Those are creative insults.”

“You—stomping all over her heart like that, what kind of—” Jiya smacks him on the side of the head. “She said she loves you and you didn’t say it back!?”

Flynn stares at her. He was… not expecting her to say that. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry!? I’m speaking English! I will get out Google translate and say it in Croatian! Would you like Russian? I know a bit of Russian! What kind of man doesn’t say I love you too when the woman he’s been fucking head over heels for says she loves him!? Are you out of your stupid mind? Are you so tall that you broke through the ozone layer and your brain froze!?”

“…Lucy knows that I love her,” he says carefully.

“Oh, of course. So all that crying and ice cream eating, that was, what, because you hogged the blankets at night?”

Flynn’s heart feels like it’s in a vice. Their argument from earlier takes on a horrible, devastating new meaning.

He thought—he was so obvious, his heart on his sleeve or so he’d believed. He was gone on her, utterly devoted to her, possibly from the first moment he met her in Brazil. For Christ’s sake, _he_ kissed _her_ first, in Chicago.

But if…

“She really doesn’t know?” he asks, his voice gone hoarse.

Jiya throws her hands into the air.

Jess sits down on the bed next to him with a little sigh. “Look, ah, Flynn, I know that we’re not… we’ve never really talked.”

He likes Jess well enough, he supposes. He’s more been avoiding her because he wants to strangle her husband, and he thinks she might frown upon that. Also if he gets within five feet of her Wyatt glares at him like he thinks Flynn’s going to fuck Jess too now just to piss Wyatt off even more.

“But, if I may…” Jess takes a deep breath. “Look the Wyatt that I knew? He’d tell me that he loved me all the time. Every day. But it didn’t… he didn’t act like he loved me. He would get absolutely… furious if I talked to another guy. He questioned where I was going, what I was doing, who I was doing it with. His jealousy was just out of control. Then he’d disappear. Go off on tours, on assignments he couldn’t tell me anything about. He’d just be a ghost for six months. And so no matter how much he said it, I didn’t feel loved.

“I think that you’re really good at showing Lucy that you love her. With your actions. But just like… just like when someone says they love you but don’t act like it, someone acting like they love you but never saying it, that hurts, too.

“And I don’t mean—y’know, love languages and all, and some people are different, we’re all different. But people still need to have the conversation at least once. They need to get on the same page. She needs you to _tell her_.”

“You’re pregnant,” Flynn blurts out.

“…yes, yes I am,” Jess says slowly, like Flynn told her the sky was purple and she’s trying to figure out why he’d say such a thing.

“If Lucy—you’re here. In the bunker. But Lucy has to time travel. We don’t know what that would do to—to a pregnancy. And if… our lives are in danger on those, constantly, she’s nearly died once from that fever, what if she’d been pregnant during that, what if…”

Jiya’s face finally softens. “Iris.”

Jess looks confused.

“Flynn had a daughter,” Jiya says quietly. “Rittenhouse killed her.”

Jess goes white in the face. “They—they killed a child?”

“She was five,” Flynn says, the words echoing dully.

Jess looks like she might vomit. “I—Wyatt never told me about—I never—I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, why apologize?”

Jess clears her throat. “Look. I don’t get it, because I’m not a mother. Yet. But you… she has to know that you love her. Because I get why you’re scared. To go through that loss… I can’t. I can’t imagine. But you’ve got a woman who loves you crying herself to sleep because she thinks you don’t return her feelings and it’s up to you to fix that.”

“I didn’t mean children with her _never_ ,” Flynn replies. “I just meant—it’s too dangerous.”

“None of that fucking matters,” Jiya says, folding her arms. “Not if she doesn’t trust that you love her.”

He scrubs a hand across his face. No wonder Lucy was so upset, no wonder she lashed out. She thought he didn’t want kids with her because he didn’t love her.

Fuck. Fuck, he messed up.

“You should go to her,” Jess says softly. “Take her to bed. Tell her.”

Jiya raises an eyebrow at him.

Flynn sighs. “I’d like to do it without you two watching, thanks.”

Jess get up, brushing off her jeans. “Well. I’ll wish you goodnight then.”

She has to drag Jiya from the room, since Jiya is trying to make an Olympic sport out of glaring at Flynn, but then he’s alone.

Lucy—Lucy thinks he doesn’t love her. _She thinks he doesn’t love her_. It’s circling around his head like water around a drain.

But how, how could she, when he can feel himself staring at her like she’s the moon, the stars, the ocean, pulling him in, magnificent and going to be the death of him and he doesn’t even care?

He walks into the living room, his hands trying to clench into fists out of pure nervousness. His heart is hammering. He knows that she loves him. He _knows_ this. And yet the idea of telling her, of officially putting his heart on a platter and handing it to her… it terrifies him.

Because once he says it, once he declares himself—it’s like giving the universe permission to take her from him.

It’s officially giving her the power to destroy him.

But Jess is right. He can’t hurt Lucy, and if his silence is hurting her this badly then he has to end it. He will do whatever it takes to make her happy, he’ll carve out his own heart if that’s what it takes—literally—and if he ends up hurting because of it… so be it.

So he takes a deep breath—and pauses.

Lucy’s curled up on the couch, wearing her red sweater again, dead asleep.

She looks so small, curled up like that. Her face is a little flushed, either from crying or the alcohol or both. Her dark hair spills out over the cushion.

Oh God, he loves her impossibly.

Well, he’s not waking her up now. She’s exhausted. The talk can wait for the morning.

Yes, he’ll tell her in the morning.

Flynn gently scoops her up in his arms, until her head is resting on his shoulder. He expects her to wake up, perhaps protest, but instead Lucy stays asleep, curling into him, her hand catching a fistful of his shirt. Her lips ghost across his neck and she makes a small content noise.

His heart just about stops. He presses a kiss to her hair. He doesn’t deserve her, he really, really doesn’t. He doesn’t deserve this level of devotion, this trust. But he’s a weak, selfish man and he’ll take it.

He carries her carefully, gently to bed. Gets her jeans off because those are uncomfortable to sleep in, then the sweatshirt since she’ll get too warm with it on, and carefully sinks into bed next to her. Lucy drapes herself over him, nuzzling into his chest.

He holds her. Listens to her breathing. Feels his eyes get hot and his vision swim.

Tomorrow. He’ll tell her tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm. I'm so sorry.


	12. Chinatown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It strikes him later, after Lucy settles enough to get up, after they rejoin Wyatt and Jiya, after they return to the Lifeboat—
> 
> It never occurred to him to go after Emma.

Lucy wakes up warm. That’s the sticking point for her sleep-hazy mind before she even opens her eyes. She’s warm. 

The couch is never warm. Sleeping on the couch means half the time waking in the middle of the night because the room is drafty and there really aren’t enough blankets in the bunker, and she did fall asleep on the couch, can distinctly remember that, so she isn’t sure why she’s—

Her pillow shifts under her cheek and an arm tightens briefly around her waist before relaxing again. 

Flynn. He must have collected her at some point. Carried her back to bed. Their bed. 

Lucy doesn’t open her eyes, but her throat goes tight, hot tears threatening as everything comes flooding back. 

He doesn’t love her. Flynn doesn’t love her. And that’s—he’s not obligated to love her, she’s not mad at him for not returning her feelings, but the sting is sharp, especially now when he’s holding her, when she doesn’t want him to ever let go. Because that’s a fantasy, she knows that now. The quiet, soft moments may take the edge off, lessen the burden of being trapped in a place like this, but they’re nothing more than a beautiful dream. 

Lucy curls into Flynn despite herself, tucking her face into his neck. His fingers stroke her waist, soft, lazy caresses, and he hums. 

“Morning,” he murmurs, shifting away enough to brush her hair out of her face. 

Her heart pangs in her chest. She loves this man so much. And maybe it’s for the best that he doesn’t feel the same, because there are things she hasn’t told him as well, things she can’t imagine saying out loud—the fact that she’s a direct descendant of David Rittenhouse for one—but she wants him to, wants him to want her just as badly, doesn’t want to be the only one stuck out on a limb like this. 

“I was on the couch,” she says, and he shrugs. 

“I didn’t think you should have to sleep badly because I was an idiot. And I—“ Flynn wets his lips. “I wanted to say—I—“

Suddenly, there’s a commotion outside the door, a crash, shouting—

Lucy jumps out of bed and grabs her robe off the chair, throwing it on before she rushes out, Flynn right behind her. 

“Wyatt?” She calls out as she comes around the corner. 

“Jessica, she—she got my gun. Kidnapped Jiya. Took the Lifeboat.”

Lucy’s head swims, the arguments going on around her no more than white noise. Jessica—she sat with her last night, she comforted her, she—no—

“We asked you,” Rufus says—betrayed, wrecked— “We asked you if there was anything to make you suspect—“

“He didn’t know,” Lucy interrupts, stepping between the two men. Not because Wyatt needs or even necessarily deserves defending after how he’s acted, but because she can’t bear to watch the two people who used to be her best friends fight. “Rufus, he didn’t—“

“I did,” Wyatt admits, and it’s a knife in the back. 

“What?” 

The relationship drama, his behavior recently, everything that he’d done to make her so furious at him—she’d thought if nothing else she could at least count on him to do what was best for the safety of the team. But to never even say—

Lucy misses the beginning of Flynn’s comments, trapped in her own head, but she snaps out of it when the first punch is thrown. And that—fuck, she would be lying if she said it hadn’t been coming for awhile, but that doesn’t make it any easier to watch, and it certainly isn’t the time—

“Hey!” She reaches for Wyatt’s arm, tries to pull him back—and gets hit in the face for her trouble. 

Fuck. 

It was an accident, she knows that, but that doesn’t make it better, doesn’t make it hurt less. Any of it. 

(He was supposed to be her friend, no matter what. That’s what she thought. But apparently she’s been wrong about a hell of a lot lately.)

“Lucy...” Wyatt reaches for her and she flinches away. 

“No,” she says. “No. Just...leave me alone.” 

Fuck. 

Lucy heads to the bathroom to check her mouth in the mirror—she cut the inside of her lip on her teeth when she was hit, but she doesn’t think there’s any other real damage. Still, she stares in the mirror, not even seeing after awhile, her reflection drawn and pale. 

Jessica is Rittenhouse. Jiya is gone. 

It doesn’t seem real. 

“Are you okay?” 

Lucy looks over her shoulder and catches Flynn’s eyes in the bathroom doorway. He’s tense—all coiled energy, frustration in the line of his jaw—but his eyes are concerned and at least a little wary. 

“I’m fine.”

“Can I see?” He asks, stepping forward and extending a hand toward her face. 

Lucy sniffs and looks back at the mirror. How many different ways can she break in one 24-hour period? The universe seems to be trying to figure out an answer. 

“You weren’t the one that hit me,” she replies. “Don’t worry about it.”

Flynn visibly flinches. “Lucy, please. Can I just—“

Lucy sweeps her tongue over the cut inside her lip, no longer tasting blood, although it stings slightly. 

“I really am okay,” she says gently, reaching out her hand in invitation. Flynn crosses to her in an instant, cupping her cheek, checking her over with the softest of touches. 

“I should have told you about Jessica. About the photos.” Flynn doesn’t look at her when she speaks, but he pulls his hand back slowly, apparently satisfied that she’s as fine as she claimed to be. “I didn’t want to keep it from you, I swear I was going to tell you, but then we fought and I—I had other things on my mind.”

“Lucy,” Flynn sighs. “What I said—I didn’t—“

“It’s okay,” she interrupts. She can’t hear whatever sweet platitudes he might come out with. She can’t hear him apologize for not loving her. She can’t. So it’s—it’s okay. Because she has to be. She can’t afford to break down right now, not with Jess turning on them all, with Jiya missing—

“You don’t understand,” Flynn insists, and she has to choke back a sob. “Lucy, I—“

Lucy cuts him off with a kiss, feeling almost like it’s the last time she’ll ever have the chance. 

If kissing him yesterday was sugar and molasses, this is tar and gasoline. She’s half-sick with it—every new kiss, every slide of his tongue a kind of sweet poison burning her from the inside out because she loves him, she loves him, she loves him and she is a fool. 

The sink is probably not intended to bear weight, but that is nonetheless where Lucy ends up, perched on the edge with her legs around Flynn’s waist, her teeth marking up his neck. She doubts he’ll fuck her like this, not after their discussion, but he gets a hand between them nonetheless, sliding it down beneath her waistband to where she’s hot and slick and wanting. 

She shouldn’t let him. If she can’t have what she wants from him, she shouldn’t take sex as a consolation prize. Better to pull the knife out now rather than let it twist further, hook deeper. But she needs him, she needs him, she needs him, and not having anything at all would hurt her worse than this. At least, she imagines it would. 

So. Sex. 

Each stroke of his fingers cuts her to bloody ribbons, but she kisses him, kisses him, kisses him, and then Flynn pulls his hand away, drops to his knees, and—

Lucy does sob then, clapping a hand over her mouth after and getting the other in his hair as he curls his tongue around her clit and sucks. 

Her climax, when it comes, carries with it the same mix of pleasure and pain. It leaves her wrecked, raw, feeling more like a wrung out dish towel than a human being. But she kisses Flynn hard when he gets to his feet, sucks the taste of herself from his tongue, and tries to breathe. 

“Lucy—“ Flynn’s voice is rough, his eyes red. She can’t tell if his hands are shaking or if that’s just her. “Lucy, I need to—we should talk about yesterday—“

Lucy kisses him again and he pulls away with a faint growl of frustration. 

“Lucy—“

“Not right now,” she says, hopping down from the sink. “We should focus on getting Jiya back. We’re fine, anyway. There’s nothing to talk about.” 

“Lucy.”

She walks out without looking back.

* * *

Flynn sinks back against the wall as he watches Lucy go, slamming his hand against it a moment later before swiping it over his face in frustration. 

Fuck. _Fuck_. 

What the hell was that? Fine? They’re _fine_? He may have been an idiot yesterday, but he can at the very least tell that whatever they are is the furthest thing from fine. Christ, she’ll barely look at him, won’t let him get a word in edgewise, and the way she kissed him—

He shouldn’t have touched her. He’d stopped in Paris all those months ago and she’d been maybe half as frantic then. He’d stopped then because he knew she would regret it, because he hadn’t wanted to take advantage, because she’d been a wreck. 

He shouldn’t have touched her. But the last thing he wanted was for her to feel rejected. And he’d thought maybe if he could just work some of her tension out, maybe she might be in a better place to listen to him, maybe he could just tell her—

Fuck. 

This day could not possibly get worse. 

_This day can absolutely get worse_ , he thinks an hour later after the Lifeboat appears only to vanish again. Rufus is, understandably, a wreck, Wyatt is holed up in some room or other, avoiding consequences, or at least that’s Flynn’s uncharitable thought for the day since he can’t punch the man again, Mason would probably be drinking if not for how much he cares about Rufus, and Lucy...Lucy is combing through history books avoiding everyone. 

It’s not exactly the right time to tell her he loves her. But god, he wants to. He wants to tell her, wants to help her, wants to hold her—he can’t fix anything else but maybe he can fix this. 

Except then Lucy finds a picture and they locate the Lifeboat—130 years old, rusted to hell and back, but fixable, usable with a few hours of work—and before he has a chance to work up to getting yelled at again, they’re hopping in the ship and heading off. 

And everything only goes downhill from there.

* * *

Her mother is dead. Her mother is dead. 

And her last words were about how she wished she’d indoctrinated her daughter better. Sooner. 

_It still belongs to you. All you have to do is take it._

As if Lucy would ever want that. As if she ever could. 

The very thought makes her sick. Even more when she considers—

_I took your sister from you so we could have more time._

Carol Preston, Mother of the Year. Even on her goddamn deathbed. 

Lucy takes the pictures of Amy out of her locket and gives it up, then sits in the back of the shop with her head in her hands. Breathing. Trying to hold herself together. 

She’s fraying, fraying, fraying, and after the past day and a half, she might just snap. She’s a little afraid of what happens then. 

A little while later, Flynn walks in alone, with all the frustrated energy of a caged panther. He didn’t catch up to Emma then, that much is clear. 

“Where’s Wyatt?” She asks. 

“We split up. He’s fine as far as I know. Even I couldn’t kill him if I wanted to, and I want to—“ He swipes a hand over his face and cuts himself off. “Your mom?”

“She’s dead.” It’s funny almost, how the words don’t feel like anything. Her mother is dead. She should feel...something, right? Something other than numbness. 

“I’m sorry, Lucy.”

“You know what her great regret was? That she didn’t indoctrinate me earlier into her evil cult. You were right. I should have seen it sooner. My whole life, I was blind.”

She doesn’t look at him, but Flynn doesn’t seem to mind that. 

“If you want someone to blame, you should blame Wyatt,” he replies. “He’s the idiot who brought a Rittenhouse spy into the bunker.”

“And what would you have done?” Lucy snaps. “If Rittenhouse had brought your wife and child back from the dead, would you look for the hidden catch, or would you just be so grateful that they were back in your arms and in your life?” 

It’s not a fair shot. She knows, logically, that if Lorena Flynn came back without Flynn himself being directly responsible, he would probably question it. That he was a better husband than Wyatt, that he wouldn’t have needed to bring his family into their private safe house to prove himself. But their fight yesterday still stings more than anything, and she can’t help wondering—

“You can blame Wyatt if you want, but—“

“I don’t give a damn about Wyatt,” Flynn interrupts, getting to his knees in front of her, down to her level so she can’t avoid his eyes. 

“That’s not why I’m here.”

It feels like the precursor to something else, something bigger. The look in his eyes—

“Why are you here?” Lucy asks before she can stop herself. 

Flynn wets his lips. “Lucy...because I l—“

The door opens, and both of them start, Lucy nearly getting whiplash from how fast he neck turns to look at the intruder. 

Wyatt. Of course. 

She wants to send him away, to rewind five seconds, to tell Flynn to finish his sentence. But the moment is gone. And they have work to do. 

“Where’s Rufus?” Wyatt asks. 

“We found Jiya,” Lucy replies, brushing off her skirt as she stands up. “Come on.”

Of course, finding Jiya doesn’t make anything better. Not when Emma and Jessica walk in. Not when they end up running through a hail of bullets. Not when they finally make it outside only for Emma to fire another several shots. 

Not when one hits Flynn and the other—the other hits Rufus. 

Lucy doesn’t spare a thought when she grabs the gun on the ground and takes off after the other woman.

* * *

“Lucy!”

“Wyatt!”

“Can you move with that thing?” Wyatt asks as Flynn holds pressure on his shoulder. Gunshot wounds are always unpleasant, but this one is both painful and extremely inconvenient. 

Still. He can’t leave Lucy alone. 

“I sure as hell can try,” he replies, and pushes himself up, following in Lucy’s direction. 

When she leaves his sight, Flynn’s pulse spikes, anxiety and adrenaline putting the pain in his shoulder nearly out of his mind. Not that he would count Lucy out, but Emma is Emma, knows how to fight, where to hit, how to kill. And Lucy doesn’t. Anger and grief can be powerful motivators, can make plenty of things possible that otherwise might not have been, but it’s still a risk. 

Heart in his throat, Flynn makes his way down the street as quickly as he can. Once, he almost has to stop and lean against a wall, his head swimming, stomach turning over—blood loss, his fucking shoulder—but he forces himself to breathe through the dizziness and continue on. It’s a balance. It won’t do to pass out, but he has to get to her. He has to. If Emma—

_Emma._

Flynn sees them, at the end of the alley, Lucy on the ground, Emma on top of her—no, no, no, god please no—

“Lucy!” 

Emma’s head snaps up and she spots him, scrambling to her feet as he aims his gun. He fires once, twice, but the recoil is murder on his shoulder and Lucy is—she’s—

The relief that floods through him when Lucy moves is as dizzying as the blood loss. If he hadn’t already been moving to his knees, that would have sent him there. Except, then she grabs his gun, faster than he would have thought possible, aims in Emma’s direction, and empties the clip. 

That, Flynn knows. That rage, that darkness, his constant companions for years. He’s seen the potential in her before— _I’ll do whatever it takes_ , she said when she visited him in prison—but he never wanted this. It’s an agony he cannot take from her, although he would if he could, would bear anything if it meant she didn’t have to. 

He takes the gun instead, sets it aside. Then, he gets his arms under Lucy and pulls her to him, even as his shoulder screams at him for it. And she shudders, the shift from productive anger to depthless grief practically tangible. 

“Flynn,” she sobs. “I can’t—“

Flynn presses his forehead to hers, rocking her gently as she cries. She’s so strong, so together most of the time, that seeing her this way is like seeing a mountain crumble. And there’s nothing he can do. Nothing but hold her, and rock her, and pray that she survives this too. 

“I can’t,” Lucy chokes out again, and Flynn tightens his grip, hushing her quietly. 

“ _Ovdje sam, ljubavi moja_ ,” he murmurs. “ _Ovdje sam, ovdje sam_.”

_I’m here, my love. I’m here. I’m here._

It strikes him later, after Lucy settles enough to get up, after they rejoin Wyatt and Jiya, after they return to the Lifeboat—

It never occurred to him to go after Emma.

* * *

Lucy loses track of time in the alley, in Flynn’s arms, drowning, drowning, drowning, clinging to him like a lifeline. Part of her never wants to get up, wants to lie down there on the ground and just sink into it, to stay there until it all stops hurting. Because it does hurt. It hurts so goddamn much and she can’t—

Flynn’s voice catches at her ears through the cacophony that is her mind. Quiet, soothing whispers that she can’t understand but feels nonetheless. Whatever he says, it makes it a little easier to breathe. 

“We should go,” he says a little while after her tears stop. “The others will be...waiting.”

The others. Wyatt and Jiya. But not Rufus. Not ever again. 

Lucy swallows hard and nods, feeling the loss as soon as he pulls away. She gets to her feet, Flynn follows—

And stumbles, his face going white. 

“Flynn?” His throat works as he swallows, his eyes closing as if he’s willing himself to stay upright. “Garcia? What’s—“

His shoulder. There’s blood on his jacket, the stain slowly spreading out, and Lucy pushes it off of him to see the damage. 

“Oh, God.” 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Flynn replies, but his jaw is tight, sweat beading along his hairline. This whole time he’s been holding her, he’s been bleeding, not saying a word—

Fuck, she can’t lose anyone else, but especially not him. Not him. 

“Lean on me,” Lucy orders, slipping his good arm over her shoulders. 

A shaky laugh escapes him. “You can’t take my weight.”

“Just do it,” she snaps, and has to steady herself when he complies. But it’s okay. She can handle it. “We’ll go slow.”

“You should go without—“

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Garcia Flynn.” 

And for once, he listens. 

Going home is a blur, a horrible, painful blur. Lucy doesn’t think she’ll ever forget the look on Connor’s face when he realizes Rufus isn’t there. But it’s Denise she seeks out. 

“Flynn needs medical attention,” she says quietly. “Immediately. Probably a transfusion, he—he lost a lot of blood.”

Denise nods once, her face tight, and excuses herself, taking Flynn along with her when she leaves the room. 

And Lucy—Lucy takes a shower, wincing at the sting when water hits the cuts on her face, her lip. She aches everywhere, feels about a thousand years old, but getting 19th century grime off of her skin is a start. 

After, she pulls on one of Flynn’s sweaters, not caring that she has to roll up the sleeves at least three times. She wants to smell like him—really, she wants to curl around him and hold on tighter than anything, but since he’s not available at the moment she’ll take the sweater. And then she settles in their bed, pulls the blanket around herself, and waits. 

Maybe two hours later, Flynn walks in, shoulder stitched and bandaged, arm in a sling, but still in his bloody shirt. Lucy sits up, biting her lip when tears threaten again. 

“You’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” he assures. “I could use some help getting into a new shirt though.”

“Yeah, of course, you just—just sit. I’ll get it.”

Flynn settles in the chair, slowly unbuttoning his shirt with one hand as Lucy searches through the drawers for something suitable. Another button-down would probably be easiest, but certainly the least comfortable, so instead she grabs a soft burgundy turtleneck. 

“Let me,” she says, batting his hands away when he tries to remove his shirt. “I got it.”

She’s careful as she takes off the sling, as she gets his shirt off, as she slips the turtleneck over his head. Good arm or bad arm first? Good arm probably. 

“I’m sorry,” he replies quietly as she gets his good arm through a sleeve. “For yesterday. What I said, I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

Lucy shakes her head. “We don’t have to talk about it right now.”

Flynn grunts as she gently maneuvers his bad arm through the other sleeve and pulls the turtleneck down over his torso. 

“We should though. Earlier you—you asked why I was here, and—“

“Flynn—“

“I love you.”

Lucy’s heart stops. Her breathing stops. Everything stops, the world frozen in still, echoing silence. 

“What?” It’s barely a whisper, but it cracks in her throat. 

“I love you,” Flynn repeats. “I thought you knew, I swear I thought you knew, I thought it had to be obvious because to me it’s—it’s a constant, it’s infinite, it’s—I can’t look at you without thinking it, I should have said it a hundred times, a thousand, and I am so sorry that I didn’t, that I ever made you think—“

She can’t breathe, she can’t breathe, but she’s crying and words keep spilling out of him, tripping over themselves in a way she’s never heard him speak before, and god, is he serious? Does he really—

“It’s not the right time, I know that,” he says. “Today has been—you’ve lost so much and the last thing I would ever want to do is cause you any more stress or pain or grief, but I couldn’t—you haven’t lost me. I needed—it seemed—Important. That you should know that.”

Logically, Lucy knows she should be more careful with him, but that doesn’t stop her from climbing into his lap, from kissing him breathless, from pressing as close as she can possibly get in this chair—

“I love you,” she replies when she pulls away. “I don’t—I don’t think I would have made it out of that alley today without you. And yesterday—I didn’t blame you when I thought—I understood, I don’t—I would never try to replace anyone. And I know how much you loved your family—“

Flynn catches her mouth, kisses her quiet. 

“I love you,” he says. “I—I’ll never stop loving them, but that doesn’t mean I don’t—Lucy—“

They should actually talk through that fight. They should. But Lucy feels wrung out, exhausted, so she presses her face to his neck and sighs. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay. Just—just hold me.”

Flynn presses a kiss to her hair and wraps his good arm around her. And that’s where they stay until suddenly, inexplicably, they hear the sound of a time machine. 

Another Lifeboat, they see when they rush out to the hangar. Another Wyatt. 

Another her. 

“You guys want to get Rufus back, or what?”


	13. Chinatown Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flynn made it back. He made it back, he’s safe, he made it back—but what did he make it back from?
> 
> Rufus was—wasn’t he? Something?
> 
> Someone was here, someone important, she had a talk with someone—with her other self? Is that what was being implied?
> 
> If it was herself, for whatever reason, then why can’t she remember her? What went wrong? What did she say to herself? What did herself say to her?
> 
> Oh, God, what if it was about Flynn.

How is this possible.

It can’t be possible.

But—

It’s _her_.

Lucy stares at her other self, at the chopped-short hair, at the dirt on her cheek, at the sweaty, stained clothes. Wyatt’s got some kind of bush attached to his face and is staring holes into his slightly younger self, but Lucy only has eyes for her other.

“Did you go to Brazil four years ago?” she asks.

If this is the woman that Flynn—if this is the woman who _lost_ him, who went back for him—she has to know, she has to _know_ —

“You went, Lucy,” is her other’s response.

She went. _She_ went? It doesn’t make any sense. None of this makes sense. She wants to grab onto Flynn with both hands and never let go. Is he alive in the future, the future these two are from? Are any of the others? Who piloted the Lifeboat, if it’s just herself and Wyatt?

It gets even worse when Flynn says that he believes her other.

Lucy tries to look at him, but he avoids her gaze. Does he know her? Is this the woman he met in Brazil? Lucy wants to know, she needs to know, they’ve just lost Rufus and she can’t lose one more person but especially not Flynn, she was supposed to get it all done better this time, she was supposed to win the war and keep everyone alive, she was supposed—

Wyatt yells at her other, and his future self is quick to lay down the law. Lucy tries to look at herself, to see, are she and Wyatt good now, in this future? Are they friends again?

Lucy stares at herself and sees nothing she can understand.

“If the testing does work, and the modifications are good we’d still need time for the team to heal. We can’t just—”

Her future self shakes her head. “You have to go now.”

“Why?” Lucy asks. What more is going wrong, what more could possibly be asked of them?

“Because the timeline is collapsing,” her future self replies.

Her other stares at her with eyes dark and sharp and cold and Lucy is afraid, she’s so very afraid.

 

* * *

 

Lucy hugs him tightly, defiantly, as Mason and Wyatt step ahead of him into the Lifeboat. It’s clear that her future self being here has unsettled Lucy, and at a time when she doesn’t need to be knocked off-kilter any further. It’s not the same woman that came to him in Brazil, but it could be her, just a few months earlier or later, before her hair grew out or if she’d chopped it off after.

He wraps his good arm around Lucy, his Lucy, and presses a kiss into her hair. “It’s all right,” he whispers. “I’ll be back.”

Lucy tightens her hold, her nails digging into his back, her breathing deep like she’s trying to inhale him. He kisses her again, then takes her chin in his hand, tilting her face up.

“I love you,” he promises her, kissing her softly. He keeps his mouth against hers, his voice low. They might be in a corner of the room but they’re not alone and this is private, this is between them. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“Come back,” Lucy tells him, and it’s not a request. It’s an order.

He’ll do everything to follow it.

The trip back to Chinatown is… messy, to say the least. It’s not what they’d hoped for, even if those hopes were vaguely defined, or at least in Flynn’s head they were.

But at least they get Rufus back. Even if they needed a questionable injection from a random and possibly sinister girl to do it. They have Rufus, that’s what matters, he just has to punch the code into the Lifeboat and…

“Our internal gyroscope is completely whacked. It’s giving me a thousand different readings all at once, like we’re—”

Connor interrupts Rufus, peering over his shoulder. “Like we’re not solidly located anywhere. In time _or_ space.”

“What!?” Flynn blurts out—at the same moment as Wyatt, he can’t help but notice.

Mason launches into a big explanation, but he can’t handle a stupid goddamn scientific lecture, he has to get home, they have to get home, he can’t abandon Lucy, he _won’t_ — “I can kill you with one good hand, Mason.”

He won’t be trapped here. He won’t, he can’t, not after he promised, not after Lucy told him to come back. He loves her, he loves her and he won’t give her the pain of losing another person.

The Lifeboat lurches and Flynn grabs onto whatever he can, sees Mason and Wyatt doing the same, his stomach feels like it’s being flung out of his body as they whip through space.

Then it’s still.

They’re all breathing heavily. Wyatt’s face is honest-to-God green. Flynn feels like his intestines have been turned inside out.

He looks towards the door. Did they make it? Please, dear God, let them have made it.

Rufus opens the door—and Jiya is standing on the other side, waiting.

The fairytale reunion between the two of them warms his heart to watch, he won’t deny that. Even if Wyatt nearly throwing up on his way out of the Lifeboat does put a slight damper on things.

But then he sees Lucy, and it all falls away.

She sprints to him, burying her head in his chest, and he stumbles a little as he catches her. “ _Moja draga_ , I’m here.”

He holds onto her as she shakes, glancing up to see if her future self is all right with this. Except—she’s not there.

Neither is the future version of Wyatt.

“Speaking of which,” he says, off Wyatt’s comment, “where are our friends?”

Lucy pulls away just enough to look up at him. “What friends?”

…oh, fuck.

If Rufus doesn’t die, then Wyatt and Lucy don’t have to come back in time to save him. So they aren’t here. And Lucy, who wasn’t on the trip—she and Denise and Jiya, they don’t remember. Because it didn’t happen for them.

Time travel. Fantastic, right?

“Garcia,” Lucy whispers as Denise calls him and Wyatt to give a status report.

He takes her hand, squeezes it, kisses her knuckles. _God, I love you_. “I’ll be back.”

Lucy stares at him as he goes. He can feel her eyes on his back the entire time.

 

* * *

 

Flynn made it back. He made it back, he’s safe, he made it back—but what did he make it back from?

Rufus was—wasn’t he? Something?

Someone was here, someone important, she had a talk with someone—with her other self? Is that what was being implied?

If it was herself, for whatever reason, then why can’t she remember her? What went wrong? What did she say to herself? What did herself say to her?

Oh, God, what if it was about Flynn. What if she found out how he died and how to save it and now she can’t remember. What if the power to keep him with her was right in her hands and now it’s slipped through like sand?

He loves her. She loves him and he loves her and she won’t lose him but she couldn’t stop her mother’s loss, or Rufus—whatever happened to Rufus—or Amy, she couldn’t stop any of it.

Who’s to say she’ll be able to actually protect Flynn when the time comes?

Jiya just about drags Rufus to bed. Whether it’s for sex or just to hold him, Lucy doesn’t know, but she doesn’t resent Jiya either one. Mason walks Rufus to his room (before Jiya yanks him in with excuses that he needs his _sleep_ , Connor, _gosh_ ), and then disappears, presumably to cry in relief in the privacy of his bedroom. Wyatt’s troubled about something, or perhaps several somethings, and goes to bed as well. Denise insists on looking at Flynn’s shoulder again.

Lucy… Lucy gets herself a cup of tea.

She sips at it, but then it grows cold as she stares at the table in front of her.

What is she missing. What is she _missing_?

She is missing something, she knows it. It’s like a yawning portal in front of her. She’s tired of being scared, she’s tired of worrying who she’ll lose next. She’s angry and she’s scared at how comfortable it feels to be that way.

Did this happen last time in the journal? Where even _is_ the journal? Is this how Rittenhouse as been kicking their asses—through reading it? Knowing what happened last time?

Her blood runs cold.

Flynn.

He must be mentioned in there. He must be. She went back through time for him, risked her life on her own timeline, he must be in there somewhere. Does Emma know, now? Is she off somewhere laughing herself sick reading the journal because Princess Lucy Preston fell for the man who’s the personification of chaos, of fire, of everything her family didn’t want for her?

If Emma knows, then Flynn isn’t safe. She’ll target him, just to get at Lucy because Emma hates her especially for some reason, maybe for her bloodline or how she was accepted into Rittenhouse by her mother without doing any of the work to go along with it. It doesn’t matter, really, why, all that matters is that she hates her and she’ll hurt Flynn to get at her and Lucy can’t have that, she _won’t_ have that, he’s the only family she’s got left…

What is she missing?

What can’t she remember?

Flynn walks in. He’s wearing an undershirt now, fresh gauze and bandages wrapped around his shoulder, his arm back in a sling. Her heart hurts to look at him, so she doesn’t. Just. Stares at the table. She feels dull inside, hollow, scraped clean. Nothing left.

Flynn pauses, then goes to the kitchen cupboards. Apparently he’s decided that he’ll join her, get a midnight snack. He’s good at that, like he was after Kennedy, just sitting in companionable silence with her as she works through her shit.

“I take it you didn’t kill Emma,” she says.

He should have. Rufus was the priority and she’s glad that he’s back from wherever he was—the knowledge still slips away like quicksilver as she tries to grasp at it—but she tastes iron and ash in her mouth when she thinks about Emma, about how much better it would be if she were dead. Rittenhouse is a Hydra, she knows this. Another would rise to take Emma’s place. But at least one snake would be down.

“No,” Flynn says. He sounds reluctant to admit it, like he thinks he failed.

She pushes her cup of tea away. She still can’t look at him. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have let her get away. Not when she’s going to hurt all of us, even more. It’s not going to stop. It’s never going to stop. We saved Rufus today, but we might lose another one tomorrow.”

She might lose him tomorrow.

“How could it even be your fault?” Flynn sits down next to her, takes her hand. She can barely feel it. She feels cold. “You weren’t even there.”

“The first time.”

“So you remember that? In the alley?”

_You remember how I held you? What I said?_

“Yes.” She looks up at him. Yes, God yes, she remembers, she wouldn’t have made it out of there if not for him, she won’t make it out of this now if not for him. “It’s only afterward that it starts to… I don’t know. I remember Rufus dying, but every time I try to think exactly how, I can’t. It shouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have let it.”

“Hey.” Flynn squeezes her hand hard. “You did your best. The only thing you could have.”

She wants to laugh, only it all sticks in her throat. “I don’t know that I believe that anymore.”

The expression in Flynn’s face makes her want to laugh even more, in a broken, hysterical kind of way. He looks like he’s falling apart for her and she wants to tell him that he shouldn’t, it’s nothing, really. She’s not so much falling as sauntering slowly downward.

“What happened to the journal?” she asks. “Did you ever find out?”

Flynn looks surprised. “I don’t know. The last time I saw it was when I was giving it to you. Before—”

“Before you got arrested and thought it was my fault.”

Flynn takes the cup of tea out of her other hand and gently tugs, pulling her into his lap. She buries her face in his neck, breathing him in. He could have died twice, today. What if his shoulder stitches had gotten ripped out on the second mission? What if he’d bled to death back there?

She feels selfish because she knows Jiya just lost Rufus, and only barely got him back, but she’s so glad that Flynn has stayed alive. That it wasn’t Flynn who was taken. What sort of person does that make her, to be glad for that?

“We seem to have gotten past that, haven’t we?” Flynn asks, his thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand.

They have, she supposes. Back then she never would have dared to think that he loved her, or have thought to admit that she loved him.

“I still had it when I went to my mom’s house,” she whispers. “Maybe Rittenhouse has it.” _Maybe it’s all my fault._ “Maybe they read it, maybe that’s how they knew to target us. To bring back Jessica, try to tear us apart from the inside. Maybe that’s my fault too.”

“There’s no way that’s because of you.” Flynn’s voice is firm, unyielding.

“Did you see my mother on the jump?”

“No. We were only there for Rufus.”

“Maybe Rittenhouse buried her. Since they’re her _family_. Or maybe they just left her there too.”

She feels Flynn sigh. “What is written in the journal isn’t always exactly what happened. It’s been changed. So has the past, the present, the future. It’s not infallible for any of us. Trust me, I had to learn that the hard way.”

“I half wish I never wrote it. Or that I never do.”

If it was the only way to save Flynn’s life then of course, of course, of course she’ll write it. But surely there’s another way. Surely she could have just _told_ him what to do. She’s placed a dangerous guidebook in the hands of the enemy and it’s her fault. She never suspected her mother was Rittenhouse. She should have, from the moment she learned what her father was, maybe even before that.

Flynn tenses underneath her. Bitterness clings to the edges of her mouth, cuts into the corners like glass, and she hates that she feels this way at all, but especially about him. “And now, once again, you know something that I don’t. That it’s what Denise said, my future self came to visit. Again, apparently. You remember that, and I don’t. I know I should. I know I need to.”

_What did she tell me that I’m forgetting?_

_What’s missing?_

Flynn takes her face in his good hand and pulls her back to look her in the eye. “Lucy—”

“I want to kill Emma,” she chokes out. She wants to kill her so badly, she wants her gone, done, she wants Flynn and everyone else _safe_ —

“I can’t say I’d mind either,” Flynn tells her. His hand cups her face, and he’s so tender with her and she thinks she might break with it, the gentle touch rather than the hammer being what kills her. “We should go to bed.”

There’s still so much to talk about, so much they have to discuss, and she’s not quite ready for sleep, doesn’t think she’ll be able to. But she doesn’t want to talk, either. She’s so sick of talking. Talking and not doing, while Rittenhouse goes out and does whatever the fuck they want.

She reaches up, traces the lines of his face with her fingertips. He could have died. He almost did die, she’d almost lost him and Wyatt and Mason and Rufus, Jiya’s last-ditch hope flung to the wind the only thing that hauled them back. “How’s your arm?” she asks.

“Can’t get jostled too much,” Flynn says, and she can tell from his tone he hasn’t caught onto her train of thought. “You’ll have to be on my other side.”

She hums, stands, catches her hand in hers. “Or on top.”

Flynn understands, then, his eyes darkening—not with lust but with concern. “Lucy—”

She kisses him, they’re the same height now that he’s sitting and she’s standing, and she sweeps away his words with her tongue. Flynn kisses her back almost indulging at first, like he’s telling her without words that he’s fully aware of what she’s trying to do here. But she keeps at it, and she knows he’s had as rough of a day as she has, and maybe it’s unhealthy but he needs this too and soon enough he’s kissing back with fervor, pressing into her mouth just as she presses into his.

She almost lost him today. She could lose him tomorrow. She’s failed, she can’t remember, she’s at the edge of a chasm and she finds she wants to jump and lose herself in the darkness. Whatever it takes to win this war, to save this man, to have her cake and eat it too this time, damn it.

When she takes his hand and tugs this time, Flynn follows.

 

* * *

 

The thing about sex when you’ve been shot is: don’t do it.

He’s been in war and he’s seen everything from a splinter to bruised ribs to a bullet to the knee fail to stop determined soldiers who craved a release, who needed to be taken out of their heads in the most carnal way possible. He was never one of them, but he understands it. He tried not to judge it, even when he had to help repair stitches afterwards with minimal eye-rolling.

Now, though, he finds himself another one of those suckers, because he’s letting Lucy undress him and spread him out on the bed and kiss her way down his chest and he’s not doing anything to really stop it.

He really should. He knows that he should. Lucy’s a mess, she’s a mess over not remembering her future self and whatever they did while he was on the jump, she’s a mess over the journal, she’s a mess over her mother, and they’ve yet to discuss anything about their relationship the way that they need to (about how he wants a future with her, he wants to spend the rest of his life with her, he wants to become a parent again with her, he wants, he wants, he _wants_ ).

But it’s clear Lucy isn’t going to let him talk to her about anything, and he’s pretty fucking rattled himself from seeing the version of her that he might have seen before—or possibly another version altogether and God he hates time travel—and frankly he’s a little (a lot), hurt that Lucy would not want to write the journal even as he understands it because that journal was all he had to keep him alive inside for two years. And if he were in her position… he’d want to touch her any way that he could. To know that she was really, truly here. That she was alive.

And he’s known, known from the moment she kissed him in São Paulo, that Lucy uses sex to express the things she can’t, or won’t, say aloud.

She takes her time with him, gentle, especially given his arm, and attentive. Not that she isn’t ever attentive, she always is, but they’re so rarely this soft with one another. Even as they’ve moved away from the desperate, hard fucking of their first few trysts, there’s been a layer of deep intensity that they’ve never quite left behind. Now it’s like it’s all softened, the colors shifted into pastels, the edges dulled as Lucy kisses and kisses and kisses him, marking each inch like she’s silently saying _mine, mine, mine._

He wonders, idly, if she’s jealous of her future self. If she thinks that her other has qualities that she doesn’t, has his heart in a way that she doesn’t. He wants to ask but he doesn’t want to add another wound to the pile, and so he stays silent.

She gets between his legs, where he’s already been pretty damn desperate for some time, and takes him in her mouth. He weaves his hand through her hair, petting, and he’s not sure who’s soothing who in this moment. He struggles not to move too much as she works herself further and further down onto his cock, because having to stop sex because you blew a stitch is probably one of the worst ways to ruin an evening, but it’s hard not to vibrate out of his fucking skin when Lucy’s so determined and methodical about this.

As usual, she doesn’t let him come. Lucy is in her way a greedy lover and he loves it, loves giving to her, loves letting her take whatever she wants from him, but generally she sees blowjobs as an especially fun way of warming up to the main event.

“What was it you said I was?” she asks, her eyes alight with warmth. He never wants to see that warmth go out again. The cold, dark look on her face in the kitchen scared him more than Rittenhouse.

It’s bad enough that there are monsters at the door, banging to get in. He won’t let the monsters in her head take her, either.

Lucy gets up on her knees, straddling him, takes him in hand. “A gentle and responsive lover, I think was the phrase?”

She sinks down slowly, like she truly wants to feel every single inch of him. He cups her cheek with his good hand, strokes the soft skin with his thumb, feels it growing warm and flushed under his touch. Lucy turns her face just a little and kisses his palm, her eyes closing but a bit of dampness slipping free nonetheless.

He said that he was starting to understand how much she loves him and he does, oh he does, and it terrifies him. He doesn’t feel worthy of that love, of that devotion, but more than that, he fears what will happen if she loses him. He would never cause her pain. Never. But he can’t guarantee his own safety and she’s so close to breaking and if she were to—if he did—

History burned when he lost Lorena and Iris. He knows what he’s like when he has his family taken from him. He doesn’t know what Lucy would be like, if the world would burn or freeze or drown. He just knows, it would die.

And he doesn’t know if he’s worth killing the world. He’s certainly not worth the sacrifice of her soul.

Lucy slides her hands up his chest, as much as she can with his arm the way it is, and takes his good hand, grasping it firmly in hers before pressing it to her heart. He caresses her face, touches her breasts, slides his hand down further to rub between her legs. She’s keeping up a slower rhythm, taking him in all the way and twisting her hips before sliding back up again, and his vision is blurring with the feel of it. He’s so lost in her—in hearing her, watching her, feeling her, tasting her when she bends down and kisses him. If he wasn’t injured he’s got no doubt that she’d be fucking him wildly, dragging him against the wall to fuck her there, biting at him everywhere her mouth could reach. But he is injured, so they have to be careful, and it’s opening a door that makes his eyes sting and his lips taste like salt as she stares at him—stares at him—

Like she’s already lost him.

He credits the residual pain in his shoulder for keeping his orgasm at bay long enough to help Lucy come, his usual tricks a bit clumsy given his injury, but when she does it’s with a sob and he lets himself fall, fall into her, and she shoves her hips down like she’s going to keep all of him in her forever.

Lucy cleans up, because a post-coital glow is nice but not waking up to tacky skin and dirty sheets is much better, and he pulls her into him as she climbs back into bed. She wraps her arms around his neck, hooks her leg over his, her cold toes between his thighs.

They lie there for a long time. Not talking. Not saying anything. Just holding each other. Lucy’s grip is tight, relaxing by increments as her breathing evens out. She doesn’t cry, which scares him. He’s not scared of her, he never could be, but he’s scared for her. Scared because he doesn’t know how to help her. Isn’t sure if she’d even let him.

He works the tangles out of her hair, and is pretty sure she’s fallen asleep when she doesn’t push into the touch like usual. “ _Volio bih da ti mogu pomoći_ ,” he murmurs. English has failed him at the moment, strung out and strung up and tired as he is. “ _Volio bih da te mogu spasiti od ovoga._ ”

_I wish, I wish, I wish._

“Someday,” Lucy whispers, her voice thick with sleep, “you’ll have to tell me all that you say, when it’s like that. Like…” He feels her yawn. “Like in the alley.”

“I thought you were asleep.”

He feels her shrug.

“Well, there’s…” He clears his throat. “ _Moja draga_.”

Lucy repeats it in a murmur.

“It means… it means ‘my darling’.”

“You said that. When—when we were at the women’s march.”

He’d been so terrified, he’d lost himself for a moment, hadn’t cared that they were in public and in front of their teammates. “In the alley, I said… _Ovdje sam, moja ljubav_.” He clears his throat. “That means… it means I’m here, my love.”

Lucy tries to pronounce the words after him and is only halfway successful.

“ _Moja ljubav_ ,” he repeats.

“My love,” Lucy says softly, echoing him.

He nods into her hair, wraps his good arm around her. “Yes.” _My love, my love, my darling, my everything._

They need to talk. They need to discuss Emma, Carol, the journal, them, their future, if there even is a future. They need to get on even ground, solid ground. They’ve said they love each other and he trusts that, he does, but they’ve never been clear about where they stand and they need to do that, they have to…

But he can’t force it on her. If Lucy needs time then he’ll have to try and give it to her. He’ll have to try and be patient. God knows he messed up royally a few times in the relationship, it’s the least he can do for her.

She loves him. He loves her.

It’ll have to be enough.


	14. The Montgomery Bus Boycott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journal started all of this. And for him it may have been life saving, but for her—maybe they would have met anyway. Maybe they would have taken out Rittenhouse anyway. Maybe they could have done it without erasing her sister, without causing as much pain and anguish for everyone, especially her. Maybe she could have found another way to save him.
> 
> Maybe he wasn’t worth saving.

Rittenhouse doesn’t jump again. 

Lucy expects it. As far as Emma knows, Rufus is dead, right? Or at least seriously injured? Plus she killed Carol, has to know their team is fractured over Jess...it would be in Rittenhouse’s best interest to strike now, wouldn’t it? 

But they don’t jump again. And the silence is almost more concerning. Because all Lucy can do is sit and wonder and stress, her mind a swirl of terrible scenarios both during the day and in her dreams. She sees all the ways she could lose people—Jiya, Rufus again, Wyatt, Flynn—usually Flynn, and it leaves her exhausted and buzzing with tension. 

She could talk about it. But everyone is on edge, not just her. Everyone is caught up with their own darkness, their own demons. Rufus wanders around the bunker like a ghost, Jiya jumps at any sudden noises, no matter how quiet, after being stuck for three years doing god only knows what to survive in San Francisco in the 1880s—she certainly doesn’t seem to be sharing those stories with anyone. Mason can’t stop looking at Rufus like he’s afraid he’ll vanish, Wyatt is nowhere to be found, shut away in his room, and Flynn—

Lucy knows Flynn has his own demons. That he’s pushed them aside to try and fight hers for her. And she’s grateful, she is, but she doesn’t know where to even begin to find the words to talk about what she’s going through. What they’re all going through. She doesn’t know how to explain what she’s feeling, and even if she did, she’s afraid. Afraid to lean on Flynn too much. Afraid of asking for too much, of pushing too hard, afraid that if she allows herself to break down the way she wants to, if she tells him the truth about the last few things she’s held back, he might—

He loves her. But love isn’t enough for everything. 

So, Lucy doesn’t break down. And she doesn’t talk. 

But she does have a lot of sex.

Flynn’s shoulder is still healing, so they have to be careful, but that doesn’t stop them. If there’s nothing else to do but research for her or rest for him, well. There’s nothing stopping her from catching him in the shower and asking him to get on his knees or dropping to her own. Or straddling him in the middle of the night when she wakes up panicked and tense. Or sitting in his lap and pulling his good hand between her thighs when she can’t stand doing anymore research. 

And yet. 

It’s good. It’s always good. Even with constraints, Flynn knows exactly how to touch her, knows how to take her out of her head, how to make her liquid and molten and shivering. 

But it doesn’t matter how many times she fucks him, how many times he makes her come. The feeling of Flynn inside her doesn’t chase away the darkness that looms over her like a black hole, threatening to swallow her up. A great orgasm may quiet her mind for a few minutes, an hour maybe, but then it comes rushing back. It’s a temporary fix, a bandaid over a bullet hole, and she’s bleeding, bleeding, bleeding—

And then there’s—well. Days ago Flynn said they should start using condoms. And maybe they should. Even disregarding all the other baggage attached to that fight, it’s true that nothing is completely effective, that using multiple types of birth control is best. But. They haven’t discussed it further, whatever panic had caused his reaction set aside, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still feel that way. Just because he loves her doesn’t mean he wants kids with her, even in the future. 

She should bring it up. They should talk about the fight, all of it. But she can’t—she hurts enough right now. She doesn’t need anything else. So she ups her shot and doesn’t ask Jiya or Denise or anyone else for condoms and they keep going the way they always have. 

It’s fine. They’re fine. She is—will be—fine.

It’s not like they’re _never_ going to talk. They will. When things calm down. When it’s easier. When Lucy finds the words. They’ll talk. Just...not yet. 

And then the Mothership finally jumps. To 1955. And just like that, Lucy’s tense all over again.

* * *

“I think Flynn should come with us,” Lucy says, and Flynn doesn’t argue, already thinking through what he remembers about the early Civil Rights Movement. 

“What—you mean, instead of me?” Wyatt asks, the surprise and offense plain in his voice. Flynn glances over, raising an eyebrow but not saying a word. 

It can’t be that much of a surprise, he thinks. After Jessica, after Chinatown, both the first time and the second—even if Lucy hadn’t been there the second time, Flynn had filled her in. That sort of betrayal isn’t easily forgotten. Or forgiven. And Flynn can understand Lucy wanting to keep him close as well. She’s hardly let him out of her sight since he returned, since they talked about the journal and she’d remarked that she wished she’d never written it, since she made love to him as if needing to remind herself he was still alive.

The journal...that still stings, but Flynn hasn’t brought it up again. He understood why she said it at the time and he still understands, knows she didn’t mean it the way it landed on his heart. And Lucy’s energy has been...off. Darker. Twisted somehow. As though she’s retreated inside herself and doesn’t know how to find her way back. The only time she seems like herself is when they’re in bed, but even then he can’t quite—he doesn’t know how to help her. He doesn’t know how to make things right for her. For them. 

And maybe he shouldn’t give in to her. Maybe he should make her talk. But he’s reluctant to withhold anything from her. Not even sex. Not even when it seems like a bad idea. If it’s the only thing that helps—

No. Flynn can’t deny her anything. 

And if she wants him on this mission, then he’ll go. 

They split up almost as soon as they land in 1955, Rufus and Mason heading off to locate Martin Luther King Jr. while Lucy and Flynn seek out Rosa Parks. 

It doesn’t...exactly go as planned. Although, Flynn supposes that getting told off by Clifford Durr, Rosa’s lawyer, is better than Rittenhouse showing up and making an assassination attempt. 

If a slight thrill shoots down his spine when the man refers to Lucy as his wife, well, that’s between him and God. 

“Well, that was...a start?” Lucy says, but her tone drips with disappointment. 

“They don’t have any reason to trust us, after all,” Flynn replies, catching her hand and squeezing it gently. She manages a small smile that only looks somewhat tense. It’s enough.

“The other night,” she starts, halting, unsure, “when I said that I wished I never wrote the journal, I didn’t—that’s not really what I—”

“Lucy, it’s all right,” he interrupts. “I know why you said it.”

The journal started all of this. And for him it may have been life saving, but for her—maybe they would have met anyway. Maybe they would have taken out Rittenhouse anyway. Maybe they could have done it without erasing her sister, without causing as much pain and anguish for everyone, especially her. Maybe she could have found another way to save him.

Maybe he wasn’t worth saving. 

“I don’t blame you. It’s okay.”

Lucy shakes her head. “It’s just—the Lucy who came to visit us. Was she the same one who visited you in Brazil? Did she say anything more about the journal? About the timeline? Anything? I feel like there’s something important that I can’t remember—”

“I don’t know,” Flynn admits. “It could have been her. But it also might not have been. I don’t know. I can’t say for sure. And we didn’t—we didn’t talk when she was here and I’ve told you everything that happened in Brazil. I’m sorry, Lucy. I don’t know anything else.”

“But—”

It may be for the best that they’re interrupted. Something about the man who comes up to them strikes Flynn as odd, a gut feeling, a whisper in the back of his mind. A random white man knowing the whereabouts of Bayard Rustin? It doesn’t add up. But they don’t have any other leads. So off they go.

The rest of the day is a whirlwind. Going to find Mason and Rufus at the church, collecting Rustin from the bus station, going back to the church only to be greeted by the sound of gunshots—

Flynn scans the area as Lucy runs in and gets MLK to safety. He doesn’t see anyone at first, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be able to find the shooter with a little digging around. 

“You go with them,” he says when Lucy starts up the porch at Betty Williams’ house. “I need to track down whoever was taking potshots at the speech.”

She stops in her tracks, her eyes searching his face. “By yourself?”

“Forget who you’re talking to?” Flynn teases gently, cupping her cheek and dragging his thumb over her cheekbone. Lucy curls her fingers in his shirt and tugs him down, kissing him fiercely for a moment before pulling away. 

“Be careful,” she says. “Be back by dawn. Meet us here, if—if nothing else goes wrong.

He could say nothing will. He could tell her that. But making a promise he isn’t sure he can keep is too close to a lie for his taste. So instead, he nods once, kisses her forehead, and turns away, looking back when he hits the end of the lane to catch the door closing behind her.

It takes maybe three hours for Flynn to find the man and return to the house. Although, calling him a man seemed like an overstatement. The shooter was a punk, maybe nineteen, and a virulent racist. Flynn would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy punching him until he gave up his rifle. The bullet was just...being thorough. Certainly cleaner than the punching. 

Except, he hadn’t known anything. There wasn’t anyone else involved. Flynn’s almost inclined to feel a hint of sympathy for the guy, being left alone, hung out to dry by Rittenhouse when they must have known the team would come, would find him, would kill him. And so the suspicion in his gut twists tighter, the feeling that they’re missing something, that they’ve fucked up somehow. 

It’s not a good feeling. 

Flynn pauses in the doorway to stare at Lucy where she’s curled up on the couch asleep. For once, her face is smooth, unruffled. If she’s dreaming, it must at least be of something peaceful. 

He doesn’t want to wake her. 

Crossing the room, Flynn reaches out, smoothing her hair back out of her face. 

“Lucy,” he says quietly, shaking her shoulder. Lucy makes a face, then opens her eyes, squinting at him in the dark. 

“Did you find whoever it was?” She asks. 

“I caught some skinny twerp with a modern rifle, yes. Took care of him. But I feel like we’re missing something here. The biggest event Rittenhouse has hit yet, and they send one actively pathetic agent to spray a few rounds at the speech? I almost felt bad about killing him.”

“And yet again, Flynn, your definition of “almost feeling bad” has serious, serious problems,” Rufus says from the hallway. It grates at him.

He’s a soldier, dammit. A soldier. This is why they have soldiers on the team. To make the hard calls. To put blood on their hands so no one else has to. What else are they supposed to do, put Rittenhouse agents in prison? What, in 1955? No. It’s kill them or nothing, and they can’t afford to do nothing. 

“Rufus—” Lucy starts, but Flynn lays his hand over hers. He doesn’t need her to defend him on this.

“The pacifists among us do things one way, I do them mine,” he bites out. “You have a problem with that?”

 

“Actually, I’m not sure I do anymore,” Rufus replies, and Flynn tries not to let his surprise show. “I’m not clear when that happened, and it seems like something I’ll terribly regret, but you’re all right. Still crazy, but whatever.”

Flynn wets his lips, clears his throat. “Uh—where are the others?”

The change of subject is necessary, but he doesn’t relish the conversation that follows. The way he’s forced to suggest they regroup, to admit his suspicions, to explain he thinks they should go home as Lucy’s grip on his hand gets tighter and tighter with every word. 

In sleep, she’d been peaceful. Now, her brow is furrowed, her body tense. She doesn’t relax as they wake Mason, as they search for the man who spoke to them earlier, as they head to the Lifeboat, as they go home. 

Useless. He should have been more careful, he should have gone after that man when they were first approached, listened to his gut. He should have done his fucking job. 

If he can’t protect the team, if he can’t protect _Lucy_ from Rittenhouse, if he can’t stop them, what good is he? 

Useless. 

And if it turns out that something did go wrong that they missed...that’s his fault. 

Goddammit.

* * *

“What happened in Montgomery, Alabama in 1955?” Lucy asks as soon as they climb out of the Lifeboat.

“Did something happen in Montgomery, Alabama in 1955?” Denise asks, and her heart sinks. She nearly swears, but then Jiya interjects.

“Wait, wasn’t there, like...some kind of brief attempt at a boycott?”

“What happened to the Civil Rights Movement?” Rufus demands. “Martin Luther King? The March on Washington? The Voting Rights Act?”

“Nothing happened,” Jiya replies. “What’s going on?”

That, at least, assuages some of Lucy’s anxiety, but only the barest hint. Jiya searches for more information and Lucy listens— _Private donor kept the system financed, so the boycott was ineffective...one of the early failed episodes in the movement_ —

Why? Why would Rittenhouse do that? Was the goal to impact the Civil Rights Movement as a whole or was it just a warning shot—wanting to prove they could? 

“It didn’t fail before we left,” Rufus says.

“You sure?” Wyatt asks. “Because I remember learning that in like, eighth grade.”

“They teach the Civil Rights movement in the Texas public school system?”

“You don’t remember it,” Lucy interrupts. “Or you do, but it’s a fake memory, like with Ryan Millerson, because Rittenhouse did it. They didn’t stop the whole movement, but they succeeded at shutting down this part of it. If it was a test, if they—and we still have no idea what—”

She breaks off, swallowing hard. She feels sick. 

“I think I need to go scream for a while,” she says. “Excuse me.” 

Lucy walks out without looking back, but she doubts she’ll be alone for long. Not when she feels the weight of Flynn’s eyes on her the whole way out. Not when she goes back to their room. 

There’s a book on the nightstand. _Civil Rights in the 20th Century_. She picks it up, turns it over in her hands, then hurls it against the far wall. 

A scream bubbles up in her throat, catches behind her teeth—she doesn’t want to cry, she’s so fucking _sick_ of crying. She’s also fucking sick of losing. 

She throws the pillow next. Balls up the blanket and throws that too. A pen. A pad of paper. She almost throws a coffee mug before deciding cleaning up the mess would be more effort than she’s willing to expend, even if the crash would be satisfying. 

“I’m sorry.”

Lucy turns to see Flynn at the door. His hands are in his pockets, shoulders hunched—he looks like a dog that chewed her shoes and is expecting to be kicked for it. 

“For what?” She asks.

“That man—I should have gone after him—”

“Even if you had, it still might have been too late,” Lucy replies. “A private donor. Fuck. Agents with guns are one thing, but money? How do we fight money? How do we trace that? What the fuck are we supposed to—”

She does scream then, wishing she had something else to throw as she turns away from him and paces. 

The worst part is it doesn’t feel like Emma. Emma can be smart, can be calculating, but she likes force. Bribes and subtle influence aren’t her style. And if Emma isn’t necessarily calling the shots, who is? And how do they find out? 

“We’ll figure it out,” Flynn says. “We’ll adapt. It’ll be okay.”

He steps further into the room, approaching her carefully. One hand settles on her shoulder, then the other when she doesn’t flinch away. His hands tighten, his thumbs sweeping up the sides of her neck, and she sags against him as her eyes burn. 

“We can’t lose this,” Lucy whispers, her eyes falling closed. “I don’t—Garcia, we can’t—I can’t—”

“We’ll figure it out,” he repeats. He presses a kiss to her hair, his hands move down her arms. She’s wound tighter than a spring, practically vibrating out of her skin. The knots in her shoulders are solid as rocks and she just—she can’t think, she doesn’t want to think, she wants to stop thinking for five minutes and feel something good—

She just wants to stop hurting. 

Lucy doesn’t turn around, but her fingers start unbuttoning her blouse. Flynn’s hands still against her. 

“Lucy…”

She nearly tears the fabric trying to get it off, then turns to face him. She grips his shirt, pushes him back until his knees hit the bed and he’s forced to sit.

“I need you,” she breathes, hiking up her skirt enough to climb into his lap. She kisses him then, with none of the careful gentleness of the past few days. She wants rough, she wants hard, she wants—

She’s spent so much time feeling numb and she just— “Please, Garcia. Please, please, please—”

Flynn unhooks her bra and slides it off her arms as she bites at his lips, his jaw, his neck. His hands fall to her hips and he ducks his head to get his mouth on her breasts, eliciting a whine from her throat. 

“Garcia— _Flynn_ —” She nips hard at his pulse and Flynn growls, his hands tightening on her hips. A moment later he lifts her out of his lap, putting her on her hands and knees on the bed. Lucy shivers.

Flynn presses his mouth to the back of her neck, to the top of her spine, traces the line of it with a finger. She shifts her weight, slides one hand under her skirt, into her underwear. She gasps when her fingers find her clit, and Flynn tugs her skirt up further. 

Lucy looks over her shoulder to catch his eyes, arching her hips. “Sweetheart—sweetheart, _please_ —”

She nearly sobs in relief when he pulls her underwear down and unbuckles his pants. Drawing her hand away, she curls her fingers in the sheets, electricity sparking over her skin as he sinks into her. 

_Fuck_. Lucy drops her head and bucks against him. _This_ , this is what she needed. Her mind stops buzzing, her focus narrowing to her body, to the hot brand of Flynn’s hands on her hips, to the way he stretches her. 

He starts off slow, but Lucy whines and shoves her hips back. 

“Harder,” she begs. “I need—”

She breaks off with a cry when Flynn gives her exactly what she asked for, a sharp, deep thrust that nearly steals her breath. She gives over to sensation then, rocking back against him as he fucks her until the tension in her snaps and she falls forward on her elbows as she comes. A few slick thrusts later, she shivers as he spills into her, dropping a kiss between her shoulder blades before he pulls out. 

They should clean up. Change out of the rest of their clothes into ones that are clean and modern and don’t make her think of frustration and guilt. But Flynn stretches out on the bed and Lucy curls into him, letting him wrap his arms around her. 

Later. She’ll clean up later. She’ll figure out what to do about Rittenhouse later. 

For now, she can lie here in Flynn’s arms and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. 

It’s enough.


	15. The Notorious RBG

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And she can’t fix it, she can’t change their minds, she can’t change anything, she’s helpless once again but she can get him out of his head. She can let him see how much she loves him, how much she appreciates him even if the rest don’t.
> 
> So she kisses him, and she undoes the tie of her robe, and she lets the fabric slide off her shoulders and drop to the floor.
> 
> Flynn pulls back, sees what she’s wearing, her hair, all of it, and makes a noise like he’s been stabbed before he plunges back in and kisses her like it’s their first time all over again, ferocious and desperate and a thousand apologies and screams of pain crammed into a single gesture.

Flynn’s heart is in his throat. Lucy was on the plane, she was _on that plane—_

He knows that the plane has touched down, he can see that it’s touched down, he _made_ it touch down, he did that, but he still can’t breathe, he can’t fucking breathe—

Lucy and Wyatt get off the plane, abject relief on both their faces. They hug for several moments, and Flynn can’t help the slight twinge in his chest, leftover from when he was convinced that Lucy was really in love with Wyatt, was only using Flynn for sex. But he does hope—they must have thought they were dying, and Lucy had once cared deeply about him as her friend—he hopes Wyatt apologized properly.

The two pull apart, and see Rufus and Flynn.

Lucy’s smile is nothing short of giddy, and Flynn’s heart is in his throat for a whole new reason. He hasn’t seen her look this happy in—in weeks.

“Oh my God!”

She runs over to him, barreling into him, and he wraps his arms around her and squeezes tightly. Oh God, she’s alive and warm and safe.

“You’re here,” she whispers. “You’re _here_.”

Rufus and Wyatt finish their semi-awkward ‘glad you’re not dead’ conversation in time for Rufus to catch the tail end of that.

“Yeah, Flynn and I were in the control tower,” he says. “Flynn got the plane touched down properly.”

Lucy looks up at him, her eyes shining like—like he’s her fucking hero or something. He feels like a hero, like maybe he could be a good man after all, when she looks at him like that.

Then there’s a flash of something else, of heat in her dark eyes, and a bolt of lightning shoots down his spine. There’s no innocent hero worship in here face now. It’s pure, naked, carnivorous _want_.

He’s going to be eaten alive tonight and he won’t mind in the slightest.

But for now, they’re in public, and his aching chest still remembers what it was to watch her plane on the radar and in the sky, terrified that he was about to watch the most precious thing in his life go up in flames. He brings his hand up, cupping her cheek, feeling the warmth of her and the curve of her face, the softness of her skin. She’s real, she’s alive, she’s safe.

It feels like—like just in this moment, just for now, all of the things they’ve been struggling with the last few weeks fall away. It’s just him getting to hold the woman he loves, and she’s smiling, she’s happy.

He wishes it could stay that way.

But of course it can’t. They have to go back, and report to Denise, and celebrate their somewhat dubious victory, although ‘celebrate’ is a strong word, and they have to try and figure out what Rittenhouse will do next, and record their mission reports, and all the rest. Lucy’s riding the high, it seems, and he doesn’t want to dampen that.

Maybe now that she’s feeling better—maybe now would be a good time to talk. There’s a lot they have to discuss: kids, the future, Lucy’s own mental state, the way she’s emotionally pulling away from him (from everyone), the journal… take your pick.

He hates to ruin her good mood, but… when she’s in her darker moods, the dark drowning mood she’s been in for weeks, she won’t listen to him. She won’t talk to him or to anyone. He has to talk to her now, before she retreats into herself again.

And then Denise summons him.

“Agent Christopher,” he says. “I thought you’d gone home tonight.”

“Everything that came back from that mission was so worrisome that I’ll be putting in a lot more late nights for the foreseeable future.”

“Pity we don’t have a machine that gets there, eh?” he jokes. “Only back?”

“That and other things.  You did say you confirmed that Ruth Bader Ginsburg was all right?”

“Yes.” He has to hold in a bit of a smile at the memory. “We found her about three blocks from her house, spitting mad and swearing that she would absolutely dedicate herself to becoming a Supreme Court justice and making certain kinds of people fry.”

“So someone told her about her future? Are we sure that won’t—”

“Lucy told you yours,” he points out. “Having Notorious RBG even more invested can’t hurt. Her description of the man who kidnapped her matched the one Lucy and Wyatt gave of the man they saw at Idlewild, and who Lucy said was the same man that she and I met in Montgomery. That has to be Rittenhouse’s new operative. Temple.”

“I agree.” Denise purses her lips to hold in a sigh. “I still have some friends in Homeland Security, in D.C. I need to make a trip and see what I can dig up, and I need you to come with me.”

That makes his blood run cold. Leave the team? Leave _Lucy_? “Me? Go to Washington D.C. with you? When I’m still only the most-wanted terrorist in the entire federal government? I’m sure that would go great. Why not take Wyatt?”

“You used to work for the NSA. You know your way around the national intelligence apparatus. You were the one with all the Rittenhouse information. I’ll get you an I.D. with a false name, we’ll change your appearance as much as possible, anything else, I promise. You’ve been a good soldier for us. Thank you.”

That—that takes him aback. He won’t lie, it’s been… difficult, knowing that so far only Lucy appreciates his presence on the team. Not that he’s not grateful for Lucy. She’s the only thing keeping him sane. But to know that someone else appreciates his work, is offering him their trust…

“Temple’s been a very dangerous enemy on two jumps in a row. If I can help you track him down, I’m happy to.”

Denise nods. “Good. Get some sleep. We’ll be leaving as soon as I get everything sorted out.”

She starts to go, but then pauses and looks back at him.

“I heard you stopped the plane disaster today. That was some quick thinking. I wish you’d have been this way from the start. We could have brought you on board sooner.”

It’s like a whip lash to his chest. A cold, cutting pain. He opens his mouth to give her a piece of his mind—and stops.

It won’t do any good, will it?

Denise is convinced that he’s a terrorist. As good as, or the same as, those people who hijack planes and strap bombs to brainwashed extremists. And only now, now that he’s obeying her and yes-ma’am-ing and throwing himself in, now that he’s given up on the sass that he feels he rightfully deserved a little of, does she give him a compliment. A backhanded one at that.

He could yell at her until he’s blue in the face that he was right about Rittenhouse, that he wasn’t a terrorist he waged war, that he put blood on his hands knowing what it would cost so that others wouldn’t, that he still has nightmares and insomnia from it, that he ended up being the only thing that kept Rittenhouse from total domination for months.

But she won’t listen, anymore than Wyatt or Rufus or Jiya or Mason will listen.

So he just… nods at her, and goes to bed.

Because really. What’s even the point anymore.

 

* * *

 

When she hears from Rufus what Flynn did to save their plane, she just about jumps him in front of the entire world, right there on the tarmac. And then again, in front of the team, when everyone gives Denise their report.

She looks at Flynn and feels soft and warm inside. She looks at him and feels home. Safety.

But that doesn’t mean the hot surge of _yes please take me_ want has faded into the background.

She’s flying high as a kite. Like she can actually breathe. She and Wyatt… well he listened to her and he apologized as much as he has and she’s got a good feeling about their friendship. They saved RBG and made it out alive. They identified Temple.

It’s not perfect, sure, but it’s the closest thing to a victory they’ve had in weeks. And Flynn—Flynn saved her life, he took control, and she’d give anything to have seen him in that control tower but the next best thing is rewarding him thoroughly for it.

With that in mind, Lucy changes into some vintage lingerie she’s saved from a previous mission, does her hair into some soft curls, and puts on some bright red lipstick.

She’s going to suck his goddamn brains out.

But then Flynn steps into the room and—and she pauses. “Garcia?”

He looks… like he’s been slapped in the face.

Lucy grabs a robe, quickly covering herself up before he can see. It’s clear that whatever plans she had for tonight are temporarily on hold.

Flynn doesn’t look up. He’s breathing hard, staring at the floor, looking lost and broken. She walks over to him, sets her hand on his arm. “Garcia. Sweetheart. What is it?”

He looks up at her, and oh, she’d tear down pillars with her bare hands to wipe away that look in his eyes. “You know that I’m…” He licks his lips. “I’m here. For you.”

Flynn takes her hand. “I know it’s—it’s probably a… a burden, but… Rittenhouse being defeated depends on us, and I’m not going to let Rittenhouse win. I’ll do whatever it takes, you know that.” He squeezes her hand. “I love you. And you—I won’t let anything happen to you—but I just—” He makes a noise of frustration. “What was that you said the other day? Excuse me, I think I need to go and scream?”

She squeezes his hand right back. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing. It’s just—Denise made it clear that while—she’s just. _Words_ ,” Flynn snarls. “It’s clear that my probation has only truly started on this team and I’m—”

She kisses him.

The anger she feels is indescribable. The hurt, the rage, the _pain_ she feels from Flynn tears her apart. If Denise, if Wyatt, if the rest of the team keeps pushing him away and treating him like a criminal, how much more of it will he take? How long will it be until he decides that his way is the right one yet again and he leaves, goes rogue, plunges back down that dark path? She just barely dragged him out. She can’t lose him to that again. Especially not now that she’s unsure if she could be that force of light again, or if she would willingly descend down into darkness herself. The woman who stood in between Flynn and a young boy and told him not to shoot—she’s not sure if she’s that same woman anymore.

And she can’t fix it, she can’t change their minds, she can’t change anything, she’s helpless once again but she can get him out of his head. She can let him see how much she loves him, how much she appreciates him even if the rest don’t.

So she kisses him, and she undoes the tie of her robe, and she lets the fabric slide off her shoulders and drop to the floor.

Flynn pulls back, sees what she’s wearing, her hair, all of it, and makes a noise like he’s been stabbed before he plunges back in and kisses her like it’s their first time all over again, ferocious and desperate and a thousand apologies and screams of pain crammed into a single gesture.

She grabs his face and kisses him back, giving as good as she’s getting, even as Flynn’s hands roam greedily over her skin. He’s almost never like this, he never just takes, but she knows that it’s not any kind of presumption—it’s his form of begging her right now, now that language seems to have failed him.

Lucy pushes him back, practically slams him against the wall, and sinks to her knees. “I don’t care if the others didn’t appreciate it,” she tells him, undoing his pants and shoving them down. “I thought you were competent, you saved the day and our asses…” She gets his cock out. “…and you were hot as fuck about it.”

She swallows him down and the noise Flynn makes causes bone-deep satisfaction to rake through her.

Lucy would be the first to admit she can be rather a tease, but right now, she just wants to make him come as hard and as fast as humanly possible. She wants him dizzy with it, she wants him out of his head, she wants him questioning reality.

Flynn tugs on her hair, thick handfuls of it, knowing by now that she likes it that way. She works her head up and down, humming, and she knows how she looks with her bright red lips, the reason that Flynn is groaning and his chest his heaving as he sucks in desperate breaths.

“Lucy,” he rasps. “Lucy, _Lucy_ —”

He yanks on her hair hard enough to actually pull her back, and she blinks up at him.

Flynn looks like an absolute wreck. His hair is falling into his face, sticking to his skin, his eyes are nothing short of wild, and beads of sweat are working down the lines of his face. “I want—please, I—if I can I—I want—”

At least he’s finally asking, or trying to ask, for what he wants.

Lucy stands, starts to unbutton his shirt. “You can have whatever you want,” she promises. She doesn’t just mean sexually. He can have all of her. Her life, her future, her soul. It’s his.

Flynn wraps his arm around her waist and kisses her like they’re going to die in ten minutes, and with Rittenhouse under terrifying new leadership, maybe they are.

She expects him to take her to the bed but instead he yanks at her underwear until it rips, which is—annoying, or will be annoying later, but right now is nothing but insanely hot—and picks her up, turning and pinning her to the door.

It’s a steel door, but she suspects they’re going to find a way to make noise with it anyhow.

She wraps her legs around him and she’s already so wet, slick from thinking about him all day and from having his cock thick and heavy on her tongue, but Flynn will always be Flynn, even as wrecked as he right now is, and he gets his fingers into her before anything else. His arm is finally better and on any other day she’d accuse him of showing off, holding her up with his hips and one hand while he fucks her with the other, his thumb pressing to her clit relentlessly. She nearly comes on the spot, and it’s only when she’s tipping over the edge that he pulls away and then slides his cock into her.

Lucy screams, clawing at him, and Flynn doesn’t waste a second before he’s thrusting into her again, and again, as she bites at his mouth and tugs on his hair and cries out until she’s pretty sure somewhere in the bunker Rufus is plotting to kill them both.

She tucks her face into his neck, whimpering, oh _God_ he’s pushing up against her clit from the inside as he thrusts deep, so fucking deep, she can’t, she can’t, she _can’t_ —

She might draw blood as she digs her nails into his back and bites his neck. She’s shaking, shaking, his arms are the only thing keeping her from falling apart and yet she’s holding him as much as he’s holding her. She can feel Flynn coming inside of her, slick and hot, and her shoulder and neck are wet and she hears a sound that she knows is a sob, and she locks her legs around him and holds on, holds on, holds on tight.

He stumbles to the bed with her and they yank the rest of their clothes off as he kisses her again, pinning her with his weight. It’s feverish at first, but slowly begins to soften, until Flynn has rolled onto his side and their limbs are tangled around each other. His hands cupping her face are gentle, his kisses equally so.

She tucks his head onto her chest and strokes through his hair, his hands at her back, and she holds him like that all night.


	16. Mr. and Mrs. Rosenberg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Nothing good ever happens when we do these things alone,” Lucy points out. 
> 
> “That’s not always true, is it?” Flynn counters quietly. “You saved Denise. That was a good thing. You don’t need me, Lucy. You’re stronger than you think.”
> 
> She pulls him down into a kiss, soft and sweet and full of promise. 
> 
> “Just come back to me,” she replies. “Just come back. Okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which they finally do the one thing most of us have been begging them to do...and it goes about as well as expected because they live to be contrary. Special shout-out to qqueenofhades for allowing/shamelessly enabling us to play in her S3 sandbox. I used a lot more dialogue than usual because that Flynn/Temple scene is...welp.

Lucy doesn’t pry further into the circumstances surrounding whatever Denise said to upset Flynn, although she does resolve to find an opportunity to casually remind everyone that, newsflash, Flynn’s the only one of them who has been right this entire time. And where the man himself is concerned, well. Given that her plans to reward him for being by all accounts extremely brilliant and heroic and saving her life didn’t exactly go as planned, she keeps him in bed until noon the next day making damn well sure he knows exactly how much she appreciates him. 

When she does finally relinquish him, Rufus snags him in the kitchen, saying something about pop culture experiences being more important than having sex for the tenth time that day. Flynn gives her a shrug and a wry smile as he’s dragged off to the couch and Lucy bites back a grin as she goes to take a shower. 

She’s pretty sure they watch _Airplane_. The irony isn’t lost on her. But that night, Flynn is more relaxed, pressing his face to her hair as he holds her while she drifts off to sleep. 

They’re at breakfast when Denise calls a meeting, and from the way Flynn grimaces and squeezes her hand, Lucy knows another shoe is about to drop. And then Denise explains—a secret undercover mission, she needs Flynn—and Lucy’s chest tightens with panic, anxiety sharp, making it hard to breathe. He just recovered from being shot, she just got over the fact that she almost lost him twice, and Denise wants to just take him? 

“Wait...you’re leaving?” She asks, looking at Flynn rather than Denise. He doesn’t quite meet her gaze. 

_You didn’t tell me._

“Only temporarily,” he replies, then looks at everyone else and adds, “besides, I thought you lot couldn’t wait to be rid of me.”

“You’ve been actually not-obnoxious recently, what can I say,” Rufus says. “Though I still can’t believe you didn’t get _Airplane_! Come on, man.”

“That movie must only be funny if you’re stoned.” Flynn shakes his head and gets back on track. “We need to hunt down Rittenhouse’s new point man in DC. Name of Temple. If they jump while we’re gone even you three must remember what to do.”

“So how can this be a good idea?” Lucy interrupts. She hates going on jumps without him. Hates it. And what if something happens to him? “Someone could recognize either one of you. If you don’t come back—“

“Then you’ll keep doing this without us,” Denise says. 

“We can’t do this without you.” Lucy looks at Flynn again. _I can’t do this without you._

“You can.” Denise again, and Lucy could scream. Was this what the other night was about? She knows, logically, that it’s the right call, that Flynn is a better choice for something like this than Wyatt, but she hates this. Blood rushes in her ears as Denise explains that Lucy’s in charge, and she nods once in acknowledgement. 

“We’re leaving in an hour,” Denise finishes. “So if there’s nothing else...”

“No,” Lucy replies. “I think we get it.”

And then she walks out, knowing even without looking back that Flynn is following her back to their room. 

“You didn’t tell me,” she says once the door closes. 

“I meant to,” Flynn replies. “I thought it would take longer for her to get everything together. I was going to tell you.”

Lucy steps into his arms, wrapping her own around his waist and pressing her face to his chest. 

“You’ll be careful?” She asks, the words muffled by his shirt. She tips her face up to him when he shifts back. “I know we don’t know much about Temple, but I can’t help feeling—he’s dangerous.”

Flynn presses a kiss to her forehead, drags his thumb over her cheek. 

“You don’t have to worry,” he replies. “If he’s dangerous—so am I.”

“Nothing good ever happens when we do these things alone,” she points out. 

“That’s not always true, is it?” Flynn counters quietly. “You saved Denise. That was a good thing. You don’t need me, Lucy. You’re stronger than you think.”

Lucy pulls him down into a kiss, soft and sweet and full of promise. 

“Just come back to me,” she replies. “Just come back. Okay?” 

“Okay.” Flynn kisses her once more and steps out of her embrace. “I suppose I should see what ridiculous disguise I’m supposed to wear for this.”

The ridiculous disguise turns out to be khaki cargo shorts, a Hawaiian floral print shirt, a baseball cap, sweatshirt, and—

“ _What_ is that?” 

Flynn looks between the dark, scraggly mess in his hands and her. “I believe it’s a fake beard. What, do you think I can’t pull it off?” 

He holds it up to his face and she bursts into giggles. 

“Oh my god, no. You cannot put that on your face. It should be burned.”

“I thought you liked me scruffy,” Flynn teases. 

“I do,” Lucy agrees, her laughter calming but not stopping entirely. “Because you wear stubble extremely well. _That_ on the other hand looks like roadkill.”

“So you won’t kiss me with it then?”

“Absolutely not.”

Flynn hums, a wicked smirk curling his lips. “Well, in that case—“

Lucy squeaks when he tugs her into his lap, renewed giggles swallowed up when he claims her mouth. 

“I love you,” he murmurs when they finally pull back. 

“I love you, too.”

The fake beard looks just as terrible as she expected. She lets him kiss her with it anyway.

* * *

“What’s wrong?” Flynn asks, hours later, standing on the Washington Mall, his stomach dropping at the worry on Denise’s face as she looks at her phone. It had been a quiet flight. Awkward. Strange to be out of the bunker, even stranger to still feel like he’s on a leash, which, of course, he is. As much as he hates the bunker, he almost prefers it to this. To being a hired gun, away from Lucy—at least in their room, it’s easy enough to remember that he’s human. That Lucy sees him. Movie nights or not, the rest of the team...doesn’t quite. 

Some days he doesn’t think they ever will. 

“It’s from Connor,” Denise says. “Rittenhouse jumped.”

“When? Where?”

Her brow furrows. “Here. February 1950.”

Hell of a coincidence. Flynn swallows hard. 

“The Rosenbergs.”

“As in Julius and Ethel?” Denise asks. “The ones executed at Sing Sing for espionage?”

“Can’t be anyone else. February 8, 1950. A group of officials met secretly in D.C. to discuss the case, and try to determine how far the spy network extended.”

“What would Rittenhouse want with that? Trying to enable the Rosenbergs to keep spying, indict more people, or—? We can’t call back and warn the team. They’ve already left.”

Whatever it is, it can’t be good. Flynn pushes down the worry that rises in his stomach. _Nothing good ever happens when we do these things alone._

He clears his throat. “I don’t know. But Lucy will figure it out.”

Denise glances at him, then away. “You and Lucy—“

“I know what you think of me, Agent Christopher,” Flynn interjects. “And that’s—you can do whatever you want with that, I don’t care. But I love her. We’re a team. And we’re going to stay that way. Anything else isn’t really anyone else’s business.”

Denise watches him for a long moment, then nods. “I need to get in touch with my old Homeland Security contacts and see what I can do about the safehouse,” she says. “Do you think you can find Temple?”

“I can damn well try.”

“Be careful,” Denise replies, and it’s nothing like it was when Lucy said it. This is all business. “Take him alive. We need information.”

 _What?_ Flynn stares. She can’t be serious. 

“We also need him to stop hurting us, and the world,” he points out. “Easier if he’s dead.”

“Garcia, I’m serious.”

Flynn jolts as if she’s just shocked him. No one has called him that in years besides Lucy. And with her it’s—it’s intimate. He doesn’t know how to make it not feel that way, how he’ll ever get used to hearing it again. This is just...foreign. He can’t decide if he likes it or not. 

“We need to know what was used on Rufus in Chinatown. We need to know about this new and improved Rittenhouse, and who else might have returned to the fold. Take him alive.”

He watches her for another moment, then jerks his head once. “Fine. No murder. Even if murder would be richly justified.”

He thinks about Lucy, in 1950, maybe even in the same spot he’s standing in now. He hopes she’s doing better than he is. 

“Guess it’s a spy hunt on both sides.”

* * *

Oh yes. Lucy _hates_ this. The Capitol looms large as she and Wyatt climb the steps, the specter of 1954 echoes all around, and she’s far too aware that Flynn is also here, nearly 70 years in the future. She wants him here. She wants him here. Not Wyatt. Not Wyatt, who keeps vanishing into dark corners, who still won’t fix his mess, won’t go after Jessica. Because he _can’t face her right now_. As if any of them can afford the luxury of sitting back and not doing things that are necessary because it’s uncomfortable.

She doesn’t know whether to slap him or shake him or—

So instead, she does nothing. Pushes it down. Walks off. If no one else will do the job, she will. And she’s going to find Emma, goddammit. 

There’s a door off one of the hallways. Strangely familiar, but Lucy doesn’t realize why until she steps through. 

It’s the conference room. The conference room from 1954. Lucy drags her fingers over the table, remembering—

_I don’t think you’re a monster anymore._

_You want to stop Rittenhouse, we’ll help you. But not like this._

_There is no other way._

That conversation feels so far away now. She feels so far away from that version of herself too. 

_There is no other way._

Flynn was right. He was right then and he’s right now. He said she was stronger than she knew—maybe what she needs is to figure that out. To figure out how to do what has to be done and stick to it. 

Lucy takes a breath and lets it out slowly, then turns to go—only for the door to click shut. 

“Hello, Princess.” 

Emma.

* * *

Temple isn’t in his office when Flynn enters, but that doesn’t make Flynn any more comfortable. His nerves are in high alert, his hand resting on his gun inside his jacket, ready just in case. 

And then the back of his neck prickles, the door shuts—Flynn whirls around, pulling the gun. 

“Good morning, Mr. Flynn,” Temple greets, a pleasant smile on his face that sends a chill down Flynn’s spine. “I’m glad you stopped by, actually. I was hoping we could have a chat.”

Flynn’s finger tightens on the trigger. Denise may want this bastard alive, but Flynn still fully believes that he would be better off six feet under. It’s the least he deserves. 

“You can put that down, you know. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Flynn nearly scoffs. “Like hell you aren’t.”

Temple’s smile widens. “Garcia—can I call you Garcia?”

If it was strange hearing it from Denise, hearing his name, his first name, from this man—it’s more than disconcerting. It’s wrong. Viscerally wrong. Flynn wants to cut his tongue out for it. 

“No,” he grits out. 

“Probably been a long time since anyone has? You’ve been fighting a lonely war. Even now. The team keeping you at arm’s length, acting like they’re so much better than you. Looking down their noses at you, need you but won’t acknowledge you...well. I know what it’s like to be underappreciated. We’re alike.”

Flynn takes a slight amount of pleasure in the fact that Rittenhouse clearly doesn’t know about him and Lucy. But the rest—Temple isn’t wrong. And Flynn hates that he isn’t wrong, that every word may as well have been pulled from his own mind. He’d chased those demons away the other night with Lucy, buried them when he lost himself in her. But Lucy is only one person, and he’s never had many, but at least when he’s been alone at other times in his life, he’s still been liked. Respected. 

“We have nothing in common,” Flynn replies. 

“Don’t we? You’re a man I can respect, Garcia. You fight hard and you fight dirty, if that’s what it takes. You understand this struggle better than most people on either side.” Temple’s voice twines around him, slinking through his ears, tying him in knots. He should shoot him. Flynn should shoot him, Denise be damned. No good can come from letting a man like this talk. 

“I’ve always felt that your case was mishandled from the start,” Temple adds, and Flynn stops breathing. “There was no need to kill your family. We could have recruited you, made you one of our star talents. You’re good at what you do, very good. Rittenhouse—“

“I don’t want to hear a damn word on what Rittenhouse thinks I could do for them,” he snarls. “I’m not doing it.”

He would never. _Could_ never. 

“And yet you haven’t shot me.”

Is the room warm? His shirt collar feels too tight, constricting. He wants to go. He wants to go, but he has a job to do and he’s going to do it. 

“I was told not to.”

“What, you’re listening to that?” Temple chuckles quietly. “You, the man who stole the Mothership and crashed through time and was willing to do anything to anybody to stop us? Suddenly you’re tame? _Whipped_?”

Flynn nearly growls. That’s _not_ what he is. He’s still perfectly capable. More than. And Lucy would understand even if Denise would be pissed. 

“I’m perfectly willing to break that if you keep—“

“Are you?” Temple watches him, eyes glittering. And then he plays his next card. “How much do you want to see your wife and daughter again, Garcia?”

Flynn’s world tips on its axis. It takes everything in him to keep his grip on the gun, to keep his hand steady. Lorena—Iris—

He loves Lucy. He loves her. But he’s—has he stopped trying to save them? No, he’s still trying, there are just...bigger concerns right now. He can’t be that selfish. But he is trying, he would never just stop—

And yet. It’s harder to remember their faces. He can’t quite recall the exact shade of Lorena’s lipstick on their wedding day, the look in her eyes when she told him she was pregnant. He’s losing the little things. How long before there’s nothing left? 

He’s failed them. And he’s let himself be happy while doing it. 

Christ, he feels sick. 

“Oh, please,” Flynn shoots back, hoping the way his voice shakes isn’t noticeable. “You’d do whatever you did with Jessica. Bring them back as some evil clones of themselves, some version that thought Rittenhouse was the best thing ever, and have them kill me and everyone else who—“

“What if I didn’t?” Temple interrupts. “What if I even let you come along to ensure they came back exactly as they were?”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“What if I did? You must have noticed that things are different at Rittenhouse these days. You got into this line of work in the first place trying to bring them back. Have you given up on that? Moved on, maybe?”

Iago and Othello. Whispering in his ear. Poisoning his mind. He is not Faust and Rittenhouse is too big a demon to trust even if he were willing to sacrifice himself in such a way. No, it’s a trick. A lie. A shameless manipulation. 

“I have not given up on them.”

“So you’re not _quite_ willing to do anything to save your family?” It’s a blow that draws blood, and Temple’s mouth curls as if he knows it. “Maybe we could make a deal. We save your original-flavor wife and daughter, you tell us where the team’s hiding. Lucy’s one of us, she’d be safe. I can’t imagine you’d be all that sorry to see the back of the rest of them, though. What do you say?”

Lucy. He thinks of Lucy coming to see him in prison, climbing into his lap, begging him to _let her_ , swallowing him down. He thinks of the darkness that lingers around her like a shroud, making her harder, sharpening her edges. That’s what six weeks with Rittenhouse did to her. _Safe._

She could never be _safe_ with them. And he would never risk her. 

The others...he couldn’t sacrifice them either. Not because they like him, not because he trusts that they wouldn’t throw him under the bus at the earliest opportunity, but because there’s a difference. There’s a difference in killing Rittenhouse members through history and hoping that might change enough to bring his family back and a suggestion like this. Deliberate. A betrayal. 

Lorena would never want that. And he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. 

“You’re dreaming,” Flynn replies. “I’d never trust you.”

“And you trust them so much? Lucy knows much more about Rittenhouse, about who she really is, than she’s ever told you.”

 _Stop_. He tells himself. _Stop listening. Just shoot him._

“I don’t believe you.”

“You thought the journal said everything? You’ve already realized it didn’t.” All of his worst, darkest thoughts, yanked out of him, turned back around on him. The words twist around him like a snake, then tighten, constricting his chest. He’s been turned inside out, decimated by a handful of sentences. Fucking Rittenhouse. 

“Lucy’s only ever told you what she wants you to know,” Temple adds. “in small drips and drabs. Making you into her puppet. Are you really going to dance on her strings forever, Garcia? Don’t you deserve some answers?”

Once upon a time, Flynn had wondered. In the beginning, when everything kept going wrong, when nothing he did brought her around to his side, in his dark times he wondered if the journal had been a manipulation. If everything Lucy told him in São Paulo was a lie. If the journal was just enough rope to hang himself with. But now—she loves him. He knows that like he knows the sky is blue. Even if he doesn’t think he deserves it, he knows she does. 

Even if she won’t talk to him. Even if she won’t let him in. Even if there’s something wrong and he can’t—

“Shut up.”

“I’m trying to help you. I think it’s important that you know the full facts. If you trust Lucy, and she trusts you, why not ask her?”

And that’s just it, isn’t it? It’s not that Flynn doesn’t trust her. He doesn’t think she would lie to him directly. But would she withhold information if she thought it might hurt him? 

She might. He can’t discount it. Especially when she won’t _talk_ to him. 

“ _Shut up_.”

“Or, yes, you’ll kill me? What are you so afraid of? That you’ll find this whole time that you’ve been fighting for a lie, and missed the only chance you had to save your family?” Temple smiles again. Chilling. Eyes cold. “Anyway, I should give you some time to think about it. Oh, what you did in 1960 the other day, that was clever. Saving both those planes? So you’re a hero now?”

“I stopped what you were trying to do,” Flynn replies. “That’s what I’m going to keep doing.”

“We’ll see. Anyway, ta.”

And just like that, Temple is gone. Flynn stands there, frozen to the floor, twisted inside out and gutted. 

Fuck. _Fuck._

He forces himself to move, runs after Temple, scans the corridor desperately—

Gone. He’s gone. 

Flynn slumps against the wall, drags a shaking hand over his face. 

_Fuck._

* * *

Emma kills Myles Lane. And when Lucy tries to go after her, Wyatt stops her. 

It burns. The same dark, twisted rage she’d felt in Chinatown burns through her veins, and she nearly shoves Wyatt aside, nearly steals his gun so she can finish the goddamn job. She had her. For the second time, she had her and Lucy doesn’t understand why she can’t just win for once. 

Emma _needs_ to die. Why is she the only one that understands that? If Lucy wants her to die, that’s just...an added bonus. 

But Wyatt stops her. And then later, Jiya stops her again. 

Although, it was a little too late then. 

Julius Rosenberg. Julius. Rosenberg. 

She doesn’t think she will ever forget the sound of Ethel’s screams. 

_I just shot a man who just wanted to see his family again, who only wanted to do whatever he could to save them._ How was Rosenberg any different than Flynn? How was he different from any of them? And she killed him. For the greater good. 

For the war. 

Lucy shivers at the thought and closes her eyes, sinking down down down into the dark. She just wants to go home. Home to Flynn. If she can just go home, just fall into him—he can fix it. He can keep her from falling apart. 

He always does.

* * *

Flynn doesn’t say a word on the flight back, stays quiet in the car as well, staring out the window. His stomach is still in knots, his pulse not quite settled. His mind...screams. Rattled doesn’t even begin to describe it. 

“Did you find a way to get us out of the damn tin can?” He asks, trying to distract himself. 

“I think so,” Denise replies. “We’ll need to be very careful about moving, though. It’ll have to be in stages. If we go all at once, it’ll ping somewhere. What about you? Did you find Temple?”

Flynn is careful not to flinch. “I found his office. There wasn’t much there. He’s too careful.”

“You didn’t catch up to him?”

He should tell her the truth. It happens. Assets freeze. Missions can go south in unexpected ways. You can’t plan for all contingencies. She should know that. 

Except, she doesn’t trust him. Not really. And if he tells her that he let Temple slip away, if he tells her why, how the other man managed to get under his skin—

She doesn’t need any more reasons. And he’s too wrecked to be able to defend himself. 

So he lies. 

“No.”

And if Denise picks up on it, she doesn’t press. 

Getting back to the bunker is almost a relief. He doesn’t see Lucy when he walks in, but the Lifeboat is back, Rufus and Mason in the kitchen. Flynn moves past them as quietly as he can, not wanting to draw attention. 

Lucy isn’t in their room either, but her toothbrush and towel are gone. 

_Lucy knows so much more about Rittenhouse than she’s ever told you._

_Lucy’s only ever told you what she wants you to know._

_I think it’s important that you know the full facts._

Flynn sinks down on the edge of the bed, bone-deep weariness weighing him down. 

_So you’re not quite willing to do anything to save your family._

The conversation plays over and over, looping in his mind, and after a while, Flynn doesn’t know if the voice is Temple’s or his own. 

“Flynn?” 

He looks up when Lucy walks in. She drops her things on the desk and crosses the room in a few strides. Then, the next instant, she’s slipping into his lap, kissing him hard, sliding her hands up his chest. 

“I missed you,” she says. “I missed you. I’m so glad you’re back.”

“Lucy—“

She kisses him again. There’s an edge to her, one he’s come to know well since Chinatown—the one that means she’s spiraling down into the dark and thinks sex will pull her back. 

But Flynn is deep in the dark himself tonight, and after D.C, after Temple, he knows sex is only going to drag him further down. 

_Have you given up on that? Moved on, maybe?_ The voice mocks him. 

He can’t. And for what it’s worth, Lucy shouldn’t, needs to talk about her problems rather than pushing them aside, and if she can’t talk to him, then what does that say about their relationship? 

Enough is enough. 

“No,” Flynn says, breaking the kiss and catching Lucy’s wandering hands. “Stop. What’s wrong?”

“Does something have to be wrong for me to want you?” Lucy replies, snatching her hands back from him. Her voice is brittle, a flush tinting her cheeks—embarrassment, guilt, maybe shame—and she doesn’t meet his eyes. 

“Lately? For the most part, it certainly seems like it.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Flynn rakes a hand through his hair as Lucy gets up, frustration tightening his shoulders, his jaw. By and large, when it comes to things like this—the touchy subjects, the difficult emotions—he can be a very patient man. Because he’s learned from experience that sometimes pushing makes things worse. But it’s a balance, and Lucy—he’s _given_ her time. He’s given her weeks of whatever she needed hoping that eventually she would just let him in, and yet somehow—somehow she’s only slipped further away. 

Christ, he doesn’t know how to _do_ this. He and Lorena were good at communication, and the handful of times they weren’t, extenuating circumstances intervened before anything could boil over. The only time they hadn’t—when he retreated into himself after Somalia and couldn’t find his way back out—well. That had worked itself out too. Lorena had pulled him back, forced him to get additional help when she couldn’t provide it. None of them can exactly see a therapist right now, but he can at least try and make Lucy stop pretending she isn’t falling apart. 

“What do you think it means, Lucy?” Flynn shoots back. “Do you think I don’t notice that you don’t talk about how you’re feeling? That you haven’t said a word in weeks about your mother or Emma or Amy or—anything. Any time we get close to talking about anything important, we end up in bed. For god’s sake, Lucy, you kiss me like you’re drowning—“

“Okay!” Lucy interrupts, throwing up her hands. “Fine! Maybe I haven’t been in a sharing mood. What do you want me to say, Flynn? What do you want from me?”

“I want you to _talk_ to me, Lucy!” Flynn pushes himself off the bed and takes a step toward her. “I want you to let me in! I’m your—“ He scrambles for a word, can’t quite wrap his tongue around anything that feels meaningful enough, stumbles past it. “—let me _help_ you.”

“Because you’re so much better?” Lucy snaps back. Her arms cross over her chest, physically closing herself off from him even as her voice cracks. “A paragon of communication? Pot, kettle, Flynn, I’m hardly the only one in this relationship who hasn’t felt up to sharing recently.”

That sticks in his throat, and Flynn swallows hard, bites back the automatic response that he’s not the one struggling the most of the two of them right now. That maybe he would say more if he thought she could handle it on top of everything she’s going through. But he can’t even get a read on where she is, how she’s doing, other than Not Well. 

“We’re not talking about me,” he replies evenly. 

“Maybe we should be.”

“What happened today, Lucy? What happened in 1950?”

“I killed Julius Rosenberg!”

Flynn reels, searches his mind for the name. The Rosenbergs were...suspected communist spies? Notable only because their bodies were pulled out of a river a few days before declassified government documents indicated they were going to be arrested. The U.S. government denied any involvement, but so did the Russians. Cause of death...gunshot wounds. 

“He was going to join them,” Lucy says, the faintest tremble in her voice. “Emma promised to protect his family and he was—he was a brilliant man, he could have helped them do so much damage, so I—I took Wyatt’s gun and I shot him in front of his wife.” 

“Lucy...” Flynn’s stomach turns over as Lucy sets her spine like steel even while she hugs herself tighter. 

“It had to be done,” she adds, and he’s not sure if the insistence is for his benefit or her own. “It was necessary. And no one else was going to—I would have gone after Emma too, but Jiya stopped me—she shouldn’t have stopped me, I could have done it—“

“No,” Flynn interrupts. Fuck, he wasn’t there. He should have been there. Or at the very least he should have killed Temple in D.C, made it worth it that he hadn’t been. “Lucy—Christ—“

He rubs a hand over his mouth, remembering the way she was in the alley in Chinatown. The cold desperation in her as she emptied his gun in Emma’s direction. He imagines her doing that again, firing a single shot to the back of a stranger’s head before turning the gun on Emma—

 _Christ_. For all that he wants Emma dead as well, he’s glad Jiya held Lucy back. 

“What, you and Wyatt are the only ones allowed to kill people?” Lucy looks away for a moment, then back to him, her face unreadable. “God, I swear, the both of you—you don’t have to protect me, I’m not some fragile flower, I’m perfectly capable—“

“It’s not about capable, Lucy, anyone can be capable. And it’s not about thinking you’re fragile either,” Flynn replies. “But you’re not a soldier, and there is a cost that comes with taking a life, whether it was necessary or not, so I don’t think it’s unreasonable for any of us to be a little concerned, especially under the present circumstances.”

Hurt and betrayal flicker in Lucy’s eyes as she watches him, as she takes a step back. 

“I thought you of all people would understand,” she says quietly. 

“Why? Because I’m the best murderer you know?” The bitterness coats his tongue as the words slip out. Lucy doesn’t flinch, but she closes her eyes briefly, and Flynn immediately wants to take it back. “Lucy—“

“I think I’m going to stay with Jiya tonight.” She turns away and starts walking to the door. “Clearly, we aren’t going to solve anything right now, so—“

“Lucy—“

“ _Goodnight_ , Flynn.” 

The door doesn’t slam behind her, but it might as well have. Flynn sinks down into the chair again and puts his head in his hands. 

It was a necessary start—as terrible as he feels, he knows they needed that. 

He only hopes he can fix it. This and everything else. Before it’s too late.


	17. The Lost Colony of Roanoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She’s not my wife,” Flynn snaps, and Lucy’s world crumbles beneath her.
> 
> He’s done nothing but let people assume they’re married (or outright said it himself as a cover) on all of their missions so far. And now—
> 
> She wants to grab him and hit him until he cracks open and tells her what’s going on—but she already knows the answer. It’s her fault, or at least part of it. She isn’t talking to him, she isn’t telling him—but she doesn’t know how—
> 
> Words stick in her throat, the air sticks in her throat, all of it sticks and coats her like poison and sinks down to the bottom of her stomach, drags her down like stones around her neck.

She walks down the hallway. There’s a light on in the kitchen.

Flynn’s sitting at the table. Staring into nothing.

“Flynn?” Her voice sounds far away.

He looks up at her. “Have you lied to me?” His voice echoes.

“What?” The room goes cold.

“All this. The journal, everything, the whole time. You’ve lied to me, Lucy, haven’t you? You’ve used me. You never told me who you really are. I trusted you. Forgave you everything. But I shouldn’t have.”

She feels sick. The world is tilting. “What? No. No! I don’t know how the journal—you know I don’t—”

Flynn gets to his feet. He’s towering over her, dark and angry. She’s scared, Flynn never scares her, why is she scared?

“I trusted you!”

“I didn’t—” She’s crying. “Please, I _didn’t_ —”

“You’re one of them!”

“Please—no—”

She wakes up.

Lucy sits, looks around. Her hands are shaking, her breathing is shallow, her heart pounding.

She still hasn’t told Flynn about being directly descended from David Rittenhouse. She hasn’t told him other things, too—they have yet to talk about the kids thing—but apparently that’s what’s at the forefront of her subconscious, judging by her nightmare.

Jiya’s bed is empty and made. She’s already up. Lucy’s not surprised. Ever since Rufus moved out, Jiya’s been… antsy, to say the least. Lucy wasn’t in much of a talking mood last night but neither was Jiya. They just lay in their beds, holding hands, staring into the darkness. Just a few months ago they would’ve been curled up on the couch together with Jess, giggling over something, grumbling about the men they love but also want to kick in the ass. Just a few weeks ago Jiya would’ve been sleeping with Rufus, and she would’ve been sleeping with Flynn.

Now it’s all changed, and she feels empty and cold. She misses Flynn’s warmth, his arms around her, using him as a pillow. The way he wakes her up by lightly stroking her back, the way he plays with her hair, the way he kisses the top of her head and brings her coffee.

She misses _him_.

But after what he said last night—God, that hurt. Is that what he thinks she thinks of him? As a murderer? She’d thought they were past that, but has he been—has he resented her for this all this time, thinking that was how she viewed him?

It makes her stomach roil and twist, makes her want to curl up into a ball and never leave the bed.

But she has to face the music—and now, in the light of day, she can see that she and Flynn do need to talk. Maybe he was… maybe he was right. She’s been trying to fix this, avoid this, escape it with sex and it’s not working. She doesn’t want to face it. But they have to.

Flynn is the one good thing she still really has left. He’s her… boyfriend seems too shallow of a word, but he’s not her husband, and perhaps never will be (the thought sticks in her throat), and ‘lover’ sounds clandestine and torrid and maybe that’s what they once were but they certainly aren’t anymore…

Other words, deeper words, come to her, but they scare her with their weight, their significance, the way they seep into her heart.

He’s hers, is the point. And she won’t lose him, especially to her own failings. They need to talk.

When she gets into the kitchen, Flynn is engaged in talking with Rufus. She waves, feeling awkward, and he waves back like a dork. It makes her heart melt and she’s ready to go over and talk to him—

But it seems that Flynn isn’t all that ready to talk to her. He helps Jiya, and she’s grateful for that because the poor girl needs it, but then he leaves as soon as D.C. comes up.

Something happened there, Lucy’s certain of it. Something happened to him, she knew they shouldn’t have been split up, they should always be together—

The alarm goes off. 1590. Roanoke.

Time to jump.

 

* * *

 

“Are you—are you avoiding me?”

Flynn jumps a little at that.

All right, so maybe he has been avoiding her. It’s not that—he knows there are things to work out between them, things that have been brewing since they went back to the Civil War to help Tubman, but Lucy doesn’t seem to want to talk about them. And he knows he hurt her with that last quip last night, about her thinking he was the murderer she knew, and he knows that she doesn’t think that and it was a hurtful thing to say, and… he’s just really, really not interested in sweeping things under the rug yet again.

“I’m right here. How can I be avoiding you?”

Lucy gives him a look. Lorena would give him that look, too. Seems he inspires that kind of exasperation in the women he loves. “You know what I mean.”

They come to a deep tidepool, one that will soak her. He takes Lucy by the waist and she braces her hands on his shoulders and he lifts her over, sets her gently on the other side. She tightens her hold as he tries to pull away, taking fistfuls of his shirt like he’s going to turn into sand and fall away between her fingers.

“I didn’t mean that, when I said—about Julius—I just wanted—”

“I know.” He gently disentangles her fingers. “And I’m sorry. About what I said, that was… harsh.”

“But you were in a harsh mood. Why? What happened.”

He steps away from her,  climbs up onto a boulder to get a better look. Ah, shit.

“Two ships. Maybe another twenty minutes from here. That has to be White and his party.”

“Who are we going to tell them we are? We don’t look like colonists.”

“Figure it out when we get there.”

He can feel Lucy’s dark eyes on him the whole time. Well. Maybe now she knows how it feels, to have someone avoiding the topic they need to discuss.

 

* * *

 

“She’s not my wife,” Flynn snaps, and Lucy’s world crumbles beneath her.

He’s done nothing but let people assume they’re married (or outright said it himself as a cover) on all of their missions so far. And now—

She wants to grab him and hit him until he cracks open and tells her what’s going on—but she already knows the answer. It’s her fault, or at least part of it. She isn’t talking to him, she isn’t telling him—but she doesn’t know how—

Words stick in her throat, the air sticks in her throat, all of it sticks and coats her like poison and sinks down to the bottom of her stomach, drags her down like stones around her neck.

 _She’s not my wife_ , Flynn snaps.

And her heart crumbles inside of her.

She knows that she has to focus on the mission. She’s well aware of how much is at stake, thanks. She’s not Wyatt, she’s not going to let her personal life interfere with their purpose here. She’s not going to waste her time arguing with Flynn in front of White.

But she really, really wants to.

If—if she were, to just go to him and say everything… to say to him, “I’m descended from David Rittenhouse, and if you’d shot that boy we would have come back to 2016 to find I didn’t exist,” what would he say? Would he keep loving her?

The mother that she knew growing up was not an easy woman. She was demanding and exacting, she held Lucy to an insanely high standard. She wasn’t so bad as the woman she came to know in the last year. The woman who kidnapped her and tried to brainwash her, who told her as she was dying, _I should have told you about Rittenhouse sooner_. The love of both women, though, both versions of that woman, was highly conditional.

Flynn isn’t demanding, or exacting, or manipulative. But can he really—can his love really endure?

_She’s not my wife._

How can she even begin to share things with him when she’s scared to look at them herself? When she looks at Amy’s picture, not even in a locket anymore, just sitting in the lifeboat, a tiny piece of fragile paper… she wonders if she really will get Amy back or if she has to let her go and she refuses to give up but she can’t help but worry that she’s beating her head against a brick wall. When she thinks of her mother she doesn’t understand how to reconcile the woman that she knew in the last year with the woman who she grew up with and loved, and yet there are similarities between them, dangerous similarities that scare her and make her wonder if the mother that she left behind with Amy was really the good person she’d always thought she was.

How does she even begin to say all of this to him?

She doesn’t know. She doesn’t _know_. She told Wyatt that she didn’t always have all the answers and she doesn’t, especially, it seems, in regards to her own heart.

It’s ironic, that Flynn was supposed to be an escape, at first. She didn’t have to think about it, she just fucked him and let him fuck her and it was easy, and she got out of her head, and she got her anger out, and she felt safe. And now they’re intertwined and it’s complicated and—and maybe it’s unfair to him, that she keeps using him the way she did when they first started this, when they’re clearly so much more than that. She says she loves him and she does, she loves him, but maybe her actions have been… less than.

White clearly wants to keep an eye on them so they can’t go far, and she finds a window and looks out across the bay. As if that’ll give her any answers. But it’s something to do. Something to look at besides trying to dart her gaze over to Flynn.

Now something’s happened to him, just like it happened to her, in D.C. and he’s being the nonverbal one and it’s just what she deserves, for not talking to him, for still treating him like a… well, a tryst, a side piece, with one hand and yet telling him she loves him with the other…

She’s done wrong by him. The last person she wants to hurt.

She kind of (only kind of) wants to fling herself out the window.

“You’re not going to see anything out there, you know,” Flynn points out. She can’t read his tone.

“The Outer Banks are famous for their storms and shipwrecks. They’re called the Graveyard of the Atlantic.” Retreating into history is… safe. It’s easy ground.

“Yes, I know. You don’t need to be the professor all the time, Lucy.”

She turns to look at him. That tone, the harshness to it—it’s not how he usually is with her. With the others, yes, especially Wyatt and Denise. But not her. Never her. “What’s wrong? Why are you acting like this? What happened in D.C.?”

“It’s not important.”

Anger bubbles up in her. “Like hell it’s not.”

Yes, she’s a hypocrite, all right. But she has to know what has him so angry, so withdrawn. That’s her role, she knows it, and she plays it well. Now that it’s reversed she’s cast adrift and scared. Flynn has always been the one reaching out. What could have caused him to pull away?

Flynn pauses, watching her. Then he gives a little sigh. “I met Michael Temple.”

That—that catches her like a pitch out of left field, striking her, all the air gone out of her. “You told Denise you didn’t.”

“Yes, well, maybe that wasn’t entirely accurate. Anyway, he—I’m sure he was lying, but I just… I haven’t been able to shake it. You’d tell me if there was anything else about Rittenhouse you knew, wouldn’t you? About all of this, everything? Now that we’re…” He stumbles. Doesn’t finish the sentence.

“Now that we’re what,” Lucy asks softly. It seems that it’s time for that conversation. The one that’s haunted them since Tubman, the Civil War. They’ve said that they love each other but—her mother’s face swims in her mind’s eye and—what does love do, really? Is their love enough, when he doesn’t see a family or a future with her?

“I thought that was clear.”

“Is it? Because you say that you love me but you don’t want children with me. You say you love me but you don’t tell me what happened to you in D.C. You—”

“Wait, what?” Flynn looks genuinely baffled. “I want children with you, Lucy, for Christ’s sake—I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Lucy gapes, literally gapes, at him.

“But… but you said you didn’t… that we should use condoms…” Her voice trails off.

Would he want children with her still, if he knew what their blood contained? Who their ancestor was? Perhaps it is better that the name, the legacy, die with her, perhaps they should avoid it. She hadn’t even considered that before but now that it’s in her head she can’t get it out:

Her children will be Rittenhouse, too.

Perhaps even a rallying point if any remnants remain by that time. Perhaps even a painful reminder for Flynn and for the others.

But Flynn’s telling her that he wants to spend the rest of his life with her, and it’s not a marriage proposal exactly but it’s certainly close enough to one to make the room sway a little under her feet, and how can she tell him now, now that he’s said that, how can she break his heart and say, _you want to spend the rest of your life with the heir to the creature you hate?_

Flynn still looks completely confused, but like he’s slowly starting to see the picture come into focus. “Because you can’t get pregnant right _now_ , Lucy, right now while we’re time traveling and in danger!” He gestures around them. “Look at this! What if you were pregnant, what if you went into labor! What if you—we don’t have any doctors, no medicine, nothing, if you, if I had to watch… Lucy, if I lost you—but to lose you and a child, another—my child—”

He looks away. Swallows.

Lucy reaches out cautiously, takes his hand. “I… Garcia…”

He squeezes her hand, then lets it go. “Clearly that wasn’t my… best day, as far as talking went. Ah. But. I just—I can’t risk you or our potential children. That was all that I meant.”

“I didn’t think…” Lucy shakes her head. “There’s loving someone and there’s… but it’s not always enough. My mother loved me, I do believe that, but that doesn’t—that _didn’t_ —stop her from doing what she did to me.”

“I know. I just—Lucy.” He sounds frustrated, hurt, lost. “I have given up everything, I have risked _everything_ , on my decision to trust a book you gave me in a bar in Brazil on a drunken heartbroken bender four years ago, to steal a time machine and crash through all of history on your _word_ alone, and—”

Her throat closes up. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“Yes, you did.”

No, it wasn’t her, it was her other, she hasn’t done this yet, doesn’t even know if she should do this yet. She questions everything now, even that. “If _she_ asked you, that—that wasn’t me. It may be yet, but it’s—”

“And back again with the excuses, Lucy. Always want to dance with the truth, but nothing else.”

That fucking hurts. “I have lost _everything_. My entire world. So forgive me for needing a little time.”

She can’t talk about this right away. She’s not like him, she’s not like Flynn who bashes in the door with the truth no matter how much it hurts, who wields facts like weapons, who cuts through everything with his wit and his observations. She needs to step back, she needs to think and adjust, she’s an academic for crying out loud. But she’s not getting any of that. Instead it’s just one thing after another hurled at her head from the universe and she’s spinning much too fast and she can’t get off the goddamn ride.

“A little time. A little _time_.” Flynn’s tone is almost scathing. “Time’s somehow the thing we have by far the most and far too little of.” He looks away. “You never want to talk about things. And we have to, if we’re going to keep—couples can’t, they don’t make it if they don’t talk, and—”

“Marlowe,” White says, cutting in.

It’s painfully apropos, given what Flynn has just said: they’re out of time.

Again.

 

* * *

 

“Lucy! Run!”

She does as she’s told, her heart pounding, even as she wants to scream, even as it feels like something vital is being ripped out of her.

They have Flynn, they’re taking Flynn, they’re _taking him_ —

She finds Rufus and Wyatt, grabs them, insists they use the Lifeboat again. They’re taking a desperate gamble, they might strand themselves, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care she doesn’t care she doesn’t _care_ , not if it gets them to White and to Flynn, not if it saves him—

She meets Elizabeth Dare, she promises to keep her secret, and then there are ships docking and men arriving.

Her heart pounds in her throat.

_Flynn._

He’s here, his hands untied but clearly still a prisoner, his life hanging by the thread of White’s temper and oh, no, no she will _not_ lose him, she will not, she will burn White and the entire goddamn crew down if that happens.

“You’re right. I’m not.” She steps forward, her blood boiling like maybe there is magic inside of her after all. “I’m a witch.”

She’s gratified to see the men take a step back. She takes a step forward. She can feel her bones hardening, her voice hardening, the soles of her feet pressing into the ground, the ground pressing back, the air in her lungs stirring like stardust.

She will not lose one more person she loves.

“I am a witch. I have seen other times and other places, I have traveled without need for horse or ship or cart. I have spoken with the dead and I have slain those not yet born. You will heed me, John White, or I will lay a curse on you down all the generations.”

White looks terrified.

_Good._

“I have been in a trance, and in it, your daughter came to me. She told me that she was dead, and she told me the manner of her death. She told me that the colony is slain, that they are all gone, and it was men called Rittenhouse that had done it.”

White flinches, then whirls around and stares at Flynn. Flynn nods slightly. Lucy breathes a little easier—he must have told White about Rittenhouse, then.

She gathers her strength. “You cannot go into this island. It is a cursed and haunted place. You must flee from here at once, before the shadow overtakes you. You must not forget who has done this foul thing. But your daughter is dead. You must listen to her. You must let her go.”

 _And you will let us go_ , her tone implies. _You will let. My. Love. Go._

“Leave here, John White. You must leave. Your daughter cannot be saved. Nor can any of them. Forget what I have told you, or disobey me, and you will come to the bitterest woe.”

Nobody moves.

Lucy stares White down. She doesn’t feel scared, or helpless. For the first time in weeks she feels—she feels _power_. She feels like she could control the elements if she wanted to. Not one more failure, not one more person she loves, not one more loss, _no more_.

One of the men isn’t so easily impressed. He reaches for his sword—

And Flynn steps in between, shielding her, spreading his arms.

His voice is like thunder. “You go through me first.”

Everyone, including Lucy, stares at him. She hadn’t—of course she hadn’t thought that Flynn would just sit idle while someone tried to stab her, but they… they didn’t leave things on the best terms. Yet here he is, still ready to fight for her.

She loves him, she loves him, she loves him so much.

“Are you that, then?” John White asks. “Her familiar?”

Flynn bares his teeth. He looks terrifying, but she isn’t scared. This is her wolf, her demon, he can never scare her. “If you like.” He smiles. It’s a smile that strikes terror. “But you will see my horns and my forked tail if you dare.”

White staggers back like Flynn’s struck him. Lucy raises her chin, stares him down. _If you dare_. Go ahead. Strike at them. Witch and demon struck a bargain long ago, back when he kissed her in Chicago, back in a bar in Brazil, again and again and again they strike their bargain, _quite the team_ , and go ahead, go ahead and come up against them, _if you dare_.

White and his men turn, and they flee.

Lucy blinks, realizing that they did, in fact, just succeed in that gambit. The feeling of power, of triumph, fades a little as she looks over at Flynn.

He looks tired. Weary. Is he… are they…?

She starts to move towards him. Stops. Pauses.

Flynn sighs and opens his arms to her, his eyes warm, gentle, nothing at all like the half-feral man who just bared his fangs at White.

Lucy doesn’t even run to him. She flies.

She crashes into him, burying her face into his chest, clinging with all of her might, her shoulders heaving as a sob wrecks her. He was taken from her, he was taken from her and he almost, he could have—she will not lose him she will not, it will break her, it will rip her soul in half—

Flynn hugs her back and she feels him kiss the top of her head. “ _Moja ljubav,_ it’s all right.”

 _My love_. So she is still his love, she is, she will try to always be.

 

* * *

 

They still don’t know what Rittenhouse has done when they get back. That worries her, of course it does, but she’s much more concerned at the moment with the fact that Flynn is back alive and safe.

They walk back down the hallway together after the debrief. Since the bone-crushing hug, they haven’t touched.

She wants to.

But Flynn’s made it clear that he’s not always happy with her method of sex as distraction and as much as she wants to lose herself in him, she’s not sure if it would be welcome.

And yet—he hugged her, he called her his love, he wants to spend the rest of his life with her, he wants children with her someday—surely she can…?

She pauses when they start to reach the bedroom doors are. “Should I… should I… my things are in, ah, in our room, I can get things for… I mean Rufus won’t be in Jiya’s room…”

Flynn looks at her for a long moment. “Lucy. I never wanted you to leave.”

“I know, that was my choice, but I thought maybe—”

“No. I don’t ever want you…” Flynn scrubs a hand across his face. “We fight. Clearly.” He gives her a wry smile. “But I don’t ever want you to leave, Lucy. I don’t ever want you to kick yourself out. I always… I want.” He looks embarrassed. “I want to hold you. Always.”

That makes tears spring into her eyes and she steps into his arms again. She wants to be held by him, always.

“We can’t make this work if we don’t talk. And I want to make this work. I want to go to bed with you and I want to see you when I wake up in the morning. Any… any anger that I have with you, that will pass. My love doesn’t.”

She swallows, turns her head to the side so that she can talk while she presses her ear to his heart, hears it beating. “I’ve never had something like that,” she admits in a whisper. Noah doesn’t count, she doesn’t remember that, that was another Lucy. She’s never been in a romantic relationship that was serious enough to warrant that, to make her trust that no matter how much they might want to strangle each other in the moment, they still love each other, even then, even as they fight.

Flynn brings his hand up and gently pets through her hair, slowly untangling it. “Then let me give that to you.”

She looks up, resting her chin on his chest. He looks like his heart is breaking—not for himself, but for her. And she knows, Flynn had a wife once, someone he loved like that once, someone he was happy with once. He knows what this is like. And perhaps that makes him more secure in this relationship than she is, or at least more secure in his half of it. But she’s walking into uncharted territory, and she’s terrified.

But now he’s offering to lend her a map.

“Okay,” she whispers.

After all, witches might summon demons. But isn’t it the job of the demons to offer advice, to lend aid, to give strength?

Flynn smiles at her soft as spring rain, and she can feel it sink into her soul, and oh… she knows what he is to her.

She gets up onto her tiptoes and kisses him, carefully, just a gentle press of her lips.

“Some of us have to get to the bathroom,” Rufus notes, not unkindly, walking around them.

“Some of us have some time to make up for,” Flynn replies, right against her mouth, and she kisses him again—a bit difficult to do while she’s smiling.

“Make up for it in your bedroom,” Rufus shoots back, closing the bathroom door behind him.

“He’s cranky,” Lucy laughs, getting her arms around Flynn’s neck.

“If that makes him cranky, he probably doesn’t want to see what we do next,” Flynn notes, his hands getting underneath her shirt to span across her back.

He ends up getting his arms around her waist and carries her into the bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him. She laughs into his mouth, yanking at his stupid Tudor clothes, because he really does manage to look good in anything but now she wants them _off_.

Flynn deposits her on the bed and she sits up, working his shirt off, keeping an eye out for bruises. If White mistreated him while he was their prisoner…

“ _Moja draga_ , I’m fine,” Flynn tells her, clearly guessing what she’s up to. “White and I had a talk, that’s all.”

“Some talk,” she snarls, kissing him, tugging on his bottom lip with her teeth. “If he had—”

“He didn’t. I’m all right.”

“But if he _had_ —”

Flynn pushes away from her, getting onto his knees and pushing her legs open, pulling her skirts down in one rough movement that has her bouncing on the bed a little. “Everyone knows if a witch’s familiar is harmed while it’s away from her, it simply reappears at her side.” He winks at her, kissing her thigh.

“Where did you hear that?”

“My grandmother. My father’s mother. Told me stories.” He muses his mouth up and down her thighs, exploring a little, making her shiver.

She runs her hand through his hair. “Garcia. Honestly. Were you all right? You’ve—I know you’ve been a soldier your entire life, I know you still are now, but it’s not just that, all right? You can tell me if he… I want to know.”

Flynn rests his hands on her legs, his thumbs brushing back and forth softly. “We just talked, that’s all, I promise. He was… grieving, and I tried to help him. I tried to… to tell him about my family, and how it was… how I started to move on.”

“To… to move on.”

“It feels like a betrayal to them. To their memory. But even if—you know, Lucy, even if they do come back I won’t go to them. The man that loved them, that they loved, he’s gone. And I love you, I love you—I don’t have words. Not in English. Not in… I don’t think, in Croatian, either. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t feel like I’m betraying… two people who loved me.”

“Sweetheart.” She pulls him up to her and kisses him. “I’m—I’m sorry, I’m so, I’m so sorry—” She knows those aren’t the right words but she doesn’t know what else will do.

“Don’t be,” Flynn breathes against her lips. He presses her down into the mattress and she wraps herself around him, gets the last of his clothes off, finds him, guides him into her. “Don’t be.”

She kisses him, she kisses him, she kisses him, and feels him on her and in her, clings to him, pushes until he flips over and she can climb on top, take him inside her again and ride him, watch his face as his gaze slides over her like fire, his hands gripping her hips like he’ll bruise her. She puts on a bit of a show, tugs on her hair, palms her breasts, touches herself between her legs as Flynn runs his hands up and down her sides, and she feels like she did on the beach, she feels daring, she feels powerful.

Flynn flips her when they’re finished, kisses playfully down her body, and she lets him, because she loves the smile that’s on his face and that he’s bringing to hers, and she tugs at his hair and arches beneath his mouth and feels him laughing against her clit. He’s chuckling still when she yanks him back up to her and tastes herself on his tongue.

They still have to finish talking. Some things are worked out. But they have to talk about her mother, about Amy, about Temple. She still has secrets she’s harboring. But she’s _warm_ , and he’s holding her, and he wants to hold her every night.

“Can we be better?” Flynn whispers as she lies on his chest. His fingers are skimming up and down her back and she’s tracing a bruise she had quite a lot of fun sucking into his chest. “About… about talking?”

She takes a deep breath. Holds it. Lets it out slowly. “Yes,” she replies, promises.

The two secrets twine around her heart like snakes: what he is to her, and what she is to Rittenhouse. Her nightmare haunts the edges of her mind still.

She just has to find the words. She will find them. In time.

And she has to trust that he’ll still want to hold her when it’s all finished.


	18. The Tsarevich

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So...just to be clear,” Houdini says when they reach the park and his curiosity can’t be contained any longer, “You two are...friends now?”

_Princess. Gunshot. Scream._

Lucy snaps awake, her heart pounding, breathing coming fast. There are tears on her cheeks and she can’t—she can’t— 

“Hey, shh.” Flynn’s arms tighten around her and she shudders, pressing her face to his neck as a few more tears slip free. “Shh, _draga_ , shh. It’s okay.”

He holds her close until she stops shaking, then pulls away enough to wipe the tears from her cheeks. 

“What was it this time?” He asks quietly. 

Lucy wants to shake her head. Wants to block it out, to climb on top of him, get his hands on her until she can’t remember anything but his name. But—

_Can we be better? About talking?_

_Yes._

“Emma,” she replies. “And my mother. And Rittenhouse. And—and you. They took you. They took you from me.”

Flynn kisses her hair, her forehead. His fingers stroke the line of her spine. 

“They didn’t. I’m right here.”

Lucy kisses him once, softly, restrains herself from pushing it into something more. When she pulls away, she rests her head on his shoulder, traces a faded scar on his chest. 

“They didn’t. But they want to. You can’t deny that.”

That’s the part that scares her. Whatever Rittenhouse tried with him in D.C, the different times Emma has tried to kill him—none of them are safe, but Flynn—

What was it he said before he left? _He may be dangerous, but so am I_? That’s true. Flynn is dangerous. He had Rittenhouse on the ropes even when he was virtually alone, when she had been trying to stop him at every turn. _The only thing standing in their way_ , Anthony said. 

If she were Emma, if she were Temple, she would want him gone. So she can’t help feeling like it’s only a matter of time. 

Her heart races. 

Flynn doesn’t stop touching her, easy and gentle and slow. 

“No,” he acknowledges. “No, I can’t.”

“What happened in D.C?” Lucy asks before she can stop herself. “You said—you said you met him. Temple.”

Flynn tenses, his fingers stilling against her back. He wets his lips, clears his throat—Lucy doesn’t relax until he starts touching her again. 

“He wasn’t in his office when I got there,” he admits. “But then I turned around and he was. I was told to take him alive, that we needed his information, but—“ 

He shakes his head. “—it was a bad idea then and it still is. The way he talks—he gets into your head. He got into mine. He—he said he would bring my family back if I told him where the bunker was. Even offered to let me come along so I could be sure it wasn’t a trick like with Jessica. And when I refused he said—well, the gist was that I’ve moved on. That I must not care anymore, that I don’t—don’t love them.”

Lucy stops breathing. She knew, she knew even before he said it that he didn’t tell, because Flynn knows better, would never trust Rittenhouse, would never throw them all away like that—

But the fact that Temple tried, the fact that he had forced Flynn to choose between the team, between _her_ , and his wife, his _child_ —

And then to twist the knife like that...

She hates Emma for everything she’s done to her—for Amy, for Carol, for Rufus. But she hates Temple too, for this. For making Flynn’s voice catch, his hands tremble as he touches her. For putting a look on his face like he’s been asked to carve out a piece of his soul. 

She _hates_ Temple for that, and if there is a list in the dark recesses of her mind, of all the people who she will make suffer by the end of this, his name has joined Emma’s there. 

And then Flynn speaks again. 

“He also asked if I thought I could really trust you. Any of the team, but you in particular. Said you knew more about Rittenhouse than you’d ever said, that you were keeping things from me deliberately—“

“Flynn—“ She’s cold, her heart in her throat. Oh, god. Of course Temple would know. Had he said—had he told—

“I can’t get it out of my head,” Flynn finishes, catching her eyes as he does. “And I’m sorry that I can’t because I know he only said it to cause problems between us. But since we weren’t talking—Lucy, is there? Something you’re not telling me?”

Lucy swallows hard and curls closer, like if she can just get close enough, hold him tight enough, he won’t be able to go anywhere. But she can’t keep him like that. And she can’t lie either. So if he’s asking—

The words won’t come. The thought of saying them aloud makes her stomach twist, bile rising in her throat. She can’t breathe, she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe, no, not yet, she can’t—

The words won’t come. 

“Yes,” she forces out. “But I can’t—I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you yet. I’m not trying to hurt you or manipulate you or whatever other bullshit that horrible man told you, I just—I can’t say it. Not yet.”

Flynn goes quiet. Doesn’t stop touching her, doesn’t tense, doesn’t withdraw, just goes quiet. 

“Okay,” he says finally. 

“Okay?” Lucy can hear the tremble in her voice even as she tries to prevent it. Flynn tips her chin up to look at him—his eyes are soft. 

“Yes,” he replies. “I trust you. So if you say you’re not ready, that’s fine. But I’m here. Whenever you are. And Lucy, there’s nothing—nothing you could say would make me stop loving you.” 

_Are you sure about that?_ It’s Emma’s voice in her head, mocking and sharp, and Lucy kisses Flynn to silence it. 

“What do you need?” He asks, stroking her cheek when she pulls back. Again, she considers asking him for than a kiss, but she doesn’t actually want sex, she wants...

“Just hold me?” She asks. “As tight as you can. Don’t let go.” 

Flynn reaches down to rescue the blanket she kicked off and pulls it up over her, adjusting his grip so he can bring both arms around her and tug her in against his chest. It’s almost too tight. Almost. But he is warm and strong and tension bleeds from her on a shaky exhale. And she closes her eyes and just breathes.

* * *

Flynn expects Lucy to fall asleep again after her nightmare. She usually does eventually, and when her breathing evens out again, that’s what he assumes. Until she swallows and starts to speak again, softly enough that he might have to strain to hear if she weren’t so close. 

“They never touched me, you know. Rittenhouse,” she says. “They never tied me up, never hit me, never even threatened to. Well—Emma sort of did, and the way she looked at me, I could tell she would have loved the opportunity, but they didn’t. They just...locked me in a room. And every day my mother would come and talk to me, try to convince me to come over to their side. Like I was some sort of misguided child and as soon as I knew better I would shape up. And she really believed that, that I was so easy, so moldable, that I would come around given enough time.”

Lucy laughs, but it’s mostly a sob, a broken, bitter thing, and he presses his lips to her hair. He can picture it. A locked room—probably a far nicer cell than his, with bookshelves, a real bed, but a cell nonetheless. Her own form of solitary. 

“They told me about the explosion at Mason Industries. They said Wyatt and Rufus were dead, that there was no one—that no one was going to come for me because there was no one left. And so I decided that I had to get out of that room, I had to destroy the Mothership somehow, I had to do something to stop them. Because I didn’t know if they were taking it out, if they were changing things—So I started playing along, pretending I agreed with my mother, that I had seen the light. And it worked, they let me out. But my mother was the only one who trusted me. I had to prove myself, especially to Emma.” 

There’s an edge to her voice that gives him pause, that leaves him cold. How do you prove yourself to people like that? Information? No, action. 

“Lucy...” Flynn starts, but he doesn’t know what to say. 

_Just hold me. As tight as you can._

“I killed Jesse James, you know.” A whisper, a confession in the dark. His stomach sinks and he does hold her even tighter then. 

“I assumed Wyatt—“

“Bass Reeves wouldn’t let him,” Lucy replies. “They were arguing about it. So I—I told myself he was a terrible person, that he was supposed to die anyway, but I still think about it sometimes, the way Bass and Wyatt looked at me after. So—so you see, Julius Rosenberg wasn’t the first person I ever killed. It wasn’t something you could have protected me from because it had already happened.”

Flynn swallows hard. Lets that sink in, the added bit of guilt he hadn’t realized there was to contend with. Because Julius wasn’t his fault, whatever happened when she was with Rittenhouse wasn’t his fault, but James—that was his fault. That was on him, for saving the man in the first place. 

He _could_ have protected her from that. But he’d wanted another pilot. 

And look how that’s turned out. 

“Lucy...I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t be. I’m not—I’m not telling you to make you feel bad, Garcia. I’m telling you because you’re my—you should know.” 

He didn’t think it was possible for her to get any closer, but she tucks her face into his neck, drops a kiss to his skin. And he holds her. 

He holds her. Because she asked him to. Because he needs to. 

She doesn’t say anything else, but she shudders once and curls her fingers into his shirt before relaxing like a weight has been taken off her shoulders. 

And eventually, she does sleep. Flynn doesn’t.

* * *

Rittenhouse jumps the next morning right after Denise has sent Rufus, Wyatt, and Mason to set up the new safehouse, and Flynn nearly groans aloud. A week. Half a week, even. He’ll take half a week of not having to run around the past chasing Rittenhouse. He and Lucy have just started really getting somewhere, the Lifeboat is a mess, and he just wants time. 

Ironic. Like he said back in Roanoke. Time. The one thing they have so much of and yet never enough. 

“London?” Lucy says. “European history isn’t really my specialty. Flynn?”

Flynn rolls his shoulders, stretches out his neck. No time. 

“I have a few ideas,” he replies. “Doesn’t matter right now, though. We need to get into that godforsaken tin can that will probably kill all of us and go after them, don’t we?”

Denise looks down the hallway, as if she can make Wyatt and Rufus reappear if she wills it hard enough. 

“We just sent them off, we—“

“We don’t have time to get them back,” Flynn interrupts. “You need to come with us.”

It’s the last thing he wants, more comfortable with Wyatt watching his back than Denise. She doesn’t trust him and he can’t easily work with someone who is going to be watching his every move, waiting for him to slip up. But they need another gun. And she’s an agent. She can handle that. He can trust her with that. 

“Me? I’ve never gone on a jump,” Denise argues. “I don’t—I’m operational command, not field personnel, I—“

“First time for everything, right?” 

He walks off toward the Lifeboat , Jiya and Lucy close behind. And after a moment, Denise follows. 

First time for everything. 

The jump is difficult, and Flynn has never hated the Lifeboat so much. He never got sick in the Mothership, never even came close, but their hunk of nuts and bolts wasn’t exactly a smooth ride to begin with and has only gotten worse since it was left to rot for over a century. Repairs since then have been slow given everything Rittenhouse has been up to, and he’s far from convinced things are going to get better. 

But they have to go. So, steal some clothes, get moving. That’s all they can do. 

“So what?” Jiya asks. “Rittenhouse wants to blow up a bridge? Early terrorist attack?”

“They’re a little late for that,” Flynn replies, his mind racing as he considers possibilities and discards them. 1894...1894...shit. “The tsarevich of Russia is visiting London, he’s about to marry Queen Victoria’s granddaughter.”

“The tsarevich? The future tsar?” Lucy looks between him and Jiya, understanding dawning. “Wait, is that Nicholas II? Nicholas Romanov?”

“As in Anastasia? Those Romanovs?”

“That movie is total crap,” he replies. “She died with the rest of them. And anyway, yes, that Nicholas II. He’s here in London to marry Princess Alix of Hesse and Rhine. They also attend the christening of the future Edward VIII, who was born something like a month ago.”

If that doesn’t happen, if he never has a son with hemophilia, if he never falls in with Rasputin—no Bolsheviks, no Russian Revolution, no collapse of the monarchy, maybe no Soviet Union at all—

Christ. This is bad. 

“So what do we do?” Denise asks, voice tinged with panic. “How do we find them? I don’t think we can just walk into Buckingham Palace, can we?” 

He shakes his head. “No, probably not. But we may have to get in anyway. So if we’re going to break in—“

“I might have an idea,” Lucy interrupts. 

Flynn looks over, and nearly groans again when he notices the poster. Houdini. Oh for fuck’s sake. 

“I’m sure you remember him,” Lucy teases, breaking into a wicked grin. 

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he says quietly as she leads the group of them down the street. 

“Think of it as our anniversary,” she replies, biting back her smile when Denise shoots them a look. “I mean...technically here it’s been a year since we...well.”

Flynn lets his fingers brush against hers and Lucy’s cheeks flush when she catches his hand for a moment before releasing it. In another circumstance, this could almost be romantic. The setting, the clothes—in another circumstance, they could just be two lovers stealing a quiet moment in the park. 

An anniversary. Between all the jumps, all the time spent in the past, it’s easy to lose track, to know exactly how much time really has passed for them. But things have changed so much since an angry, frustrated, desperate tryst in a Chicago hotel room. 

He’d wanted her so badly that night, as pissed as he’d been, as frustrated, as lost, as helpless. He’d wanted her. He’d been running on no sleep, on adrenaline, on bitterness and spite, and when she kissed him back—he couldn’t help himself. It was instinct, pressing her into that wall, dropping to his knees when she ordered him, getting his mouth on her—

Hell of an anniversary. 

“We didn’t exactly have time earlier,” Flynn acknowledges, dipping his head so he’s closer to her ear, “but you look beautiful today.”

Lucy doesn’t bother to hide her smile then, and it reminds him of Houdini’s show, of the way she had positively glowed with joy under the lights. Only now, it’s him making her smile like that. 

It’s a good feeling. 

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she murmurs. “Especially when you’re talking history.”

“Oh, you liked that, did you, Professor?” 

Her eyes darken when they catch his and she opens her mouth to reply when Jiya clears her throat loudly. 

“Lucy, you know where we’re going, right?” 

Lucy flushes deeper and steps away from Flynn, looking around. 

“There,” she says, pointing at a seedy looking tavern at the end of the block. “That’s where the poster said. I’ll go in and see if he remembers me. But if Rittenhouse is going to try to mess with this on medical grounds, maybe if we had a doctor, we could—I don’t know, see if we might—“

Denise lights up behind her, looking more excited than she has all day. 

“A doctor?”

“Yes.”

“I may have just thought of someone. At the London School of Medicine for Women, not too far from here. Jiya, you know your way around the nineteenth century, maybe if you come with me? Lucy, we’ll meet you in St. James’s Park this evening.”

Flynn hates the idea of splitting up, but Denise is right, Jiya can handle herself in this era, and it has to be Lucy to approach Houdini. 

“Okay,” Lucy agrees. “You two go on.” 

Flynn watches Denise and Jiya until they disappear around the corner, then immediately finds himself being yanked into the alley next to the tavern and shoved against a wall. Lucy claws at his jacket, tugs him down to kiss her—

“Yes—“ She nips at his lip, presses up into him, hands sliding over his shoulders— “—I liked it. I liked it a lot. And when we get home—“

She sweeps her tongue over the seam of his lips, licks into his mouth when he parts them. Heat jolts down his spine and Flynn grabs her hips, pulling her hard against him. 

They don’t have time. They don’t. They need to stop, be responsible—but that doesn’t stop him from unconsciously chasing her lips when she pulls back panting. 

“When we get home, I’m going to show you how much,” Lucy finishes. 

She steals one last kiss before stepping out of his reach, her eyes sparkling as she nods toward the tavern. 

“I’m gonna go. You should probably wait outside.”

“You really want to go in there by yourself?” He asks. 

Lucy laughs. “Just wait here and don’t get into any trouble.” 

Flynn waggles his eyebrows at her, shoving his hands into his pockets and leaning against the wall. 

“Me? Get in trouble?” 

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling as she turns to walk into the tavern, so he takes it as a win. And he settles back to wait.

* * *

Harry Houdini never expected to see Lucy Preston again. After Chicago, he half-believed he never met her to begin with, that it had all been some sort of wild dream or hallucination. That seemed almost more likely than being approached by a beautiful woman about a potential job, being taken hostage by a man who apparently had kidnapped her as well, rescuing her, and then saving her friends as well. He’s a magician, not a hero. And yet...he had been. 

But he never expected to see Lucy again. Certainly not in London, where his luck is about as good as it had been in Chicago. Oh, he has some fans to be sure, but it’s hardly the sweeping success of a tour he or Mr. Day had hoped. But...here she is. Once more with a strange request. 

For all that he’s a magician, his life is never weirder than when she turns up. 

“You want me to get you in to Buckingham Palace?” He asks as they step out into the street. “For something to do with the Russians?” 

“I’m aware it’s not much to go on,” Lucy replies, apologetically. 

“I want Queen Victoria to appreciate my magic act, not throw me into—“

He stops in his tracks, flinging his arm out in front of Lucy when his eyes land on the man leaning against the wall. Seriously? No. No no no. Not again. He is not going to run off and end up threatened and goodness knows what else—

Except, he can’t leave Lucy here either. Alone. With him. 

“You again?! I swear, if you grabbed this poor woman for a second time—“

Flynn rolls his eyes and pushes off the wall. “No. We’re working together now. No handcuffs, if you please.”

Houdini glances over at Lucy, blinking when he realizes she’s smiling. What in the world—? She nods once, and he finally drops his arm, but he glances between the two of them, trying to work out the puzzle. 

Flynn kidnapped her. She was a hostage in Chicago. Wasn’t she? She talked him into handcuffing the man to a pipe so she could escape. And now they’re...partners? Friends? 

...no, it still isn’t making sense. 

“Now that we’ve acquired the homeless magician, we should get out of here,” Flynn says. “Unless we want to be robbed for absinthe money.” 

Houdini opens his mouth to argue about that, but Lucy starts walking and he has to catch up to insert himself between her and Flynn. Like hell is he going to let her close to this loser if he can help it. Not on his watch. 

Except...as they make their way down the street, he watches. He watches the way Flynn cuts his eyes sidelong at her, his face going soft, he sees the way Lucy looks back. It makes no sense. None. 

“So...just to be clear,” he says when they reach the park and his curiosity can’t be contained any longer, “You two are...friends now?”

Flynn smirks, reaching across him to catch Lucy’s hand, bringing it to his lips. 

“You could say that,” he replies. 

“Garcia,” Lucy hisses, but there’s a blush on her cheeks, laughter in her eyes—

...no. No way. 

“How did that happen?” Houdini asks, staring at Lucy with wide eyes. He must be hallucinating, right? He must be. There’s no way she would—she’s—and he’s—

How?

“It’s a long story,” Lucy replies, and Houdini looks between the two of them again. 

“He still looks like a scoundrel to me. Are you sure?”

“Nobody asked you, Criss Angel.”

Lucy sighs and gives Flynn a look, he looks back, and Houdini watches as they have some sort of silent conversation. A year. It’s been a year. He left Flynn handcuffed to a pipe, the police were coming, how did they even find each other again? How did this happen? 

He has so many questions, and he’s not entirely convinced this isn’t just an even more elaborate hostage situation. If he could just get Lucy away from him, maybe...

Their friends run up before anything else can be said, which is probably for the best. And then they’re off to Buckingham Palace. 

Well. It’s a good thing he still has a spare set of handcuffs in his jacket. 

“So...what are we doing here, exactly?” Houdini asks as he and Flynn creep down a darkened servants’ corridor. 

“Trying to find out where the Tsarevich of Russia is tonight,” Flynn replies. 

“And if we do find the tsarevich, I suppose you’re planning to murder him? Is that it?”

Flynn huffs. “Why does everyone always think I’m planning to murder everyone?”

“You just have that look about you, to be frank. And last time we met, that was exactly what you were planning, so...”

Flynn opens his mouth as if to argue, then closes it. Houdini nearly laughs himself. A scoundrel and a fool then. 

“You and Lucy,” Houdini says quietly when they pull back from the doorway, waiting for footmen to pass. “You do seem...different from the last time we met. In only one year?”

Flynn goes quiet. Pauses. “No. It’s been longer.” 

Well, that makes even less sense. 

“There,” Flynn says, before Houdini can ask anything else, pointing to a carriage out the window. “That’s Nicholas. We need to follow that cab.”

Houdini nods, passes his hand over Flynn’s wrist without the other man noticing. He’s not taking any chances, differences or not. 

“Right. I’ll make sure the others know.”

He shrugs when Flynn tries to follow him, doing a double-take when he realizes he’s handcuffed to a pipe. 

“Sorry,” Houdini adds. “Couldn’t take the risk.”

He expects Lucy to be pleased. He expects that without Flynn around he’ll be able to get the real story about whatever nonsense is going on. 

Except...she’s not pleased. Not in the least. 

“Where’s Flynn?”

“...Wait, you really didn’t want me to leave him trapped this time?” 

“No!” Lucy throws her hands up as her two friends start giggling. “Go back and get him, run!” 

Houdini sighs and rushes back, not fully convinced that Flynn isn’t going to murder him as soon as he gets the handcuffs off. The other man glares when he approaches. 

“Lucy sent me back.”

“You don’t say.”

“You can’t really blame me, can you? After last time?” Houdini unlocks the cuffs, slipping them back into his pocket. 

Flynn rolls his eyes. “Look, Lucy and I are—it’s not like it was last time, okay? We’re past that. We’re good.”

“You’ll forgive me for not taking your word on that.”

Later, though, when they catch up with the Russians, when everything devolves into a shootout—

Even while shot, Houdini can’t mistake the tone when Flynn shouts for Lucy, when he crawls over to them—

He loves her. He’s in love with her. 

“I’m all right,” Lucy assures, and Houdini sees her grip Flynn’s free hand for a brief moment. “I’m all right, I wasn’t hit, but he—“

Oh. It really is mutual. 

He doesn’t remember much after that, but he can’t forget the way they looked at each other. 

Some things really do change, don’t they?

“So...you and Flynn,” he says hoarsely when he wakes up in the hospital. 

Lucy blushes and looks away, biting back a smile. 

“Yeah,” she replies. “Yeah, it’s, um, it’s been going on for a while.”

“He’s in love with you.”

Her smile widens. “I know.”

Houdini makes a face. “I have to ask—are you sure? Like really sure? Because I still have those handcuffs...”

Lucy bursts out laughing and swoops down to kiss his cheek. 

“I’m sure,” she says. “I’m really, really sure. It’s—he’s not what you think. He’s a good man. He really is. And I—I love him, too.” 

“He did kidnap you,” Houdini points out. 

“Well, we all have our rough patches.” 

He grins. “Suit yourself. But visit me if you’re ever back in London. Or—well. Anywhere.” 

“I will,” Lucy promises. She leans down and kisses his other cheek. “I think a lot of people are going to recognize you.”

Harry Houdini doesn’t believe in spiritualists, psychics, mystics. But for a moment, he could swear Lucy Preston knows the future. And he believes.

* * *

The ride back is rough. Rougher than anything. And as Lucy climbs out of the Lifeboat, she knows the way her stomach turns isn’t just due to the trip through time. 

She’s not the expert, but even she can tell they can’t keep going like this. The Lifeboat won’t support it. But if they can’t go after Rittenhouse, if they can’t jump—

She can’t think about it. 

She shot Emma. But she missed anything important. 

She hates that she missed. As much as she understands Flynn’s concerns for her, as much as she doesn’t like how comfortable she’s getting with violence, she hates that she missed. 

She doesn’t want to think about that either. 

So she doesn’t. Instead, she pulls Flynn into the shower with her, strips off his suit, presses him back against the wall as the spray pours down on them. 

“I believe I promised to fuck your brains out,” Lucy murmurs. “Or something to that effect.” 

“You did,” Flynn agrees, leaning down to kiss her softly. “But...then you almost got shot.” 

His thumbs trace slow circles on her waist and she lifts onto her toes the way she had in the alley to catch his mouth again, not lingering, just musing brushes of her lips against his. 

“I didn’t though. I’m okay.”

“Still. Can we—“ His hands sweep up her sides, one coming up to curl around the back of her neck as he kisses her again. “Can I wash your hair?”

“What?”

“It’s been a long day.” Flynn shrugs. “We got caught in a firefight. I am exhausted. But I’d really like to wash your hair. If you don’t mind.” 

Lucy looks at him for a long moment, then smiles and passes him her shampoo before turning around. His hands work the lather through her hair, massage her scalp, and she sighs and leans back against him. When she rinses it out, he reaches for her body wash, smooths it over her back, her shoulders—

He touches her everywhere, hands working out the tension in her neck, her back, until she’s boneless. And then she turns around and kisses him again. 

“Can I wash yours?” She asks. 

Flynn laughs. “Can you reach it?” 

Lucy swats at his chest, giggles when he catches her mouth again. 

“I can if you get on your knees.”

“Well, if you like...”

“You know, I talked to Houdini earlier in the hospital,” Lucy says later, once they’re lying in bed. 

“Oh?” 

She hums in acknowledgement and rolls onto him, her hands on either side of his head. “He says you’re in love with me.”

“Is that so.” Flynn’s lips quirk up, his eyes sparking with amusement as his hand curves around her hip. “He couldn’t have put that together before he handcuffed me and left me to be arrested?”

“I think at that point he probably would have handcuffed you just for the hell of it regardless, but—“ Lucy leans down and kisses him, his other hand coming up to slide into her hair. “—I—I like it. That he noticed. That it’s obvious.”

“You do?” 

She nods and his free arm comes around her. “I really, really do.”

Flynn flips them as he kisses her again. Lucy sighs as his mouth travels down her neck. 

“I love you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her jaw, beneath her ear, to her pulse. “I love you, I love you, I love you. _Volim te_. I’ll say it as much as you need.”

“Just kiss me,” Lucy breathes, pulling him back up to her mouth. 

And he does.


	19. Pasadena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If this works,” she promises him in a whisper, “I will get you out. I will. I won’t let you rot in there.”
> 
> She won’t, she wouldn’t. She can admit that she might have been focused on Amy, she’d get Amy back first, but she would have gotten Flynn out, too.
> 
> And there’s the fact that—that she’s still putting herself at risk. If she told her mother the truth, Emma or no Emma, her mother would have taken her. Or tried to. And that could very well have prompted Denise to get Flynn, or for her to get Flynn at some point.
> 
> She has to believe that this won’t change them. What they have. She has to believe that they’ll find each other.

Lucy feels rather odd, being the one to call the meeting instead of Denise, but it’s about time they went on the offense, and well, she’s sick of feeling like a sitting duck.

Of all the people to object to this, however, she didn’t expect it to be Denise.

“Yes, it’s possible, but Lucy, that’s a _huge_ change.” Denise presses her lips into a thin line. “We all met, we all came together because of Rittenhouse. It could be the end of the team as we know it.”

Lucy goes to reach for Flynn’s hand and finds it already there. She squeezes tightly. Forces herself to breathe.

“We were already fighting Rittenhouse—or Flynn was—and we were starting to, when he found Emma. It will change things, but not too much. Everything will be pretty much the same up until Emma steals the Mothership, won’t it? All it would do is help stop Rittenhouse from striking back when we get at them. If Emma doesn’t steal the Mothership, my mother can’t kidnap me with it. Anthony might still be alive…”

She squeezes Flynn’s hand even more tightly. She can practically feel the guilt radiating from him.

“…and what about Flynn?” Denise points out. It’s a personal blow, and Lucy has to clench her teeth to keep from striking right back, but it’s also a fair point.

Would they have gotten Flynn out of jail, if not for Emma?

No, she would, she would have. She and Flynn, they’d already—she’d known sticking him in that cell was wrong. She would have done something.

“Rittenhouse was still out there,” she says stubbornly. “My mom—it was my mistake to tell her about Amy. That was what prompted her to take me. They’re not entirely gone. We cripple them even more without Emma able to steal the Mothership but they’re not wiped from history. I think it won’t—I think it’s worth the risk.”

She has to be cutting off the circulation in Flynn’s hand but he isn’t saying anything. Denise presses her lips together, then nods.

For all her words, though, she has a hard time letting Flynn go on the mission. “If this works,” she promises him in a whisper, “I will get you out. I will. I won’t let you rot in there.”

She won’t, she wouldn’t. She can admit that she might have been focused on Amy, she’d get Amy back first, but she would have gotten Flynn out, too.

And there’s the fact that—that she’s still putting herself at risk. If she told her mother the truth, Emma or no Emma, her mother would have taken her. Or tried to. And that could very well have prompted Denise to get Flynn, or for her to get Flynn at some point.

She has to believe that this won’t change them. What they have. She has to believe that they’ll find each other.

Flynn kisses the top of her head. She goes up on her tiptoes, tipping her head up, shamelessly offering her face up to be kissed repeatedly, and everywhere he pleases. Flynn’s mouth is warm and she wants his imprint all over her, soaked into her skin, in her DNA, so that she will never in any timeline forget him. So that even if she doesn’t consciously remember, something in her will call out, and she’ll follow that cry like a thread until she finds him at the other end.

“You said that—that we could save the people we love,” she says, hating how her voice cracks. “That has to mean each other, right? This won’t—this can’t—”

“You found me once,” he points out. “You went on your own timeline and you found me. And I found you. Not in…” He grimaces in self-deprecation. “Perhaps not, ah, my best moment, but… we’ll do it again, if we have to.”

By the time Emma stole the Mothership, Lucy was already falling for Flynn. She has to trust that. She has to trust she will still fall the rest of the way, if this works.

Flynn kisses her and then starts to leave—and another fear seizes her and she grabs his hand. “If when you get back, if I—if I’m with Wyatt, or someone else, don’t let me go. Don’t—don’t do whatever stupid thing you’re going to do about me being happier with someone else, please, don’t—don’t let me go.”

Flynn stares at her for a long moment. “Lucy…”

“I don’t care about timelines and oh maybe there are different people you could be happy with, I don’t _care_.” She yanks on his hand, pulling him back into her, and she kisses him with all the determination she can muster. “I love you, Garcia, don’t let me go. Promise me.”

Flynn looks at her like she’s something that stepped down from Heaven. Like he’s not even supposed to be touching her. But he holds her, and he looks into her eyes, and he says, “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

Of all the things Flynn expected, a last-minute apology from Wyatt wasn’t one of them.

A last-minute apology _and_ an offer of friendship? What, are pigs flying?

But Wyatt seems genuinely earnest. Genuinely sorry.

“Look.” Wyatt looks horribly awkward. “There’s a chance only one of us gets back. Just—hey. Can we agree, whichever one of us doesn’t make it, the other one will look after Lucy?”

Flynn’s head jerks around and he eyes Wyatt, wary.

“I’m not going to try anything,” Wyatt says quickly. “And I know you—I know you two—look it took me a while to accept it but I know how you feel about her and I know how she feels about you. I just wanted you to know that if—that I’ll look after her. In a non-creepy way. And you’ll do the same, I hope, because we’re not together and I’m not saying I have the right or anything but. I do. Care.”

Flynn raises an eyebrow. Wyatt gives him a sheepish half-smile. “I know we haven’t exactly been best friends. But when we were in Washington—next year, actually, ’72—you said something about trusting the guy in the foxhole next to you. Well. You’re my guy in the foxhole, and I’m going to do that. I’m sorry it’s taken so long.”

“You had your reasons.” Tying the guy up probably wasn’t the best tactic.

“Yeah, but still.” Wyatt shrugs. “Besides, I think if nothing else, we agree on Lucy.”

Flynn wets his lips and looks away. Even when he knows Lucy doesn’t feel the same… what she said earlier haunts him. _If I’m with Wyatt, or someone else… don’t let me go._ “You love her.”

“Yeah. I do.” Wyatt shrugs as if to say _what are you gonna do_. “I’m not going to—to do anything. You make her happy. So.”

Flynn nods. “Frankly, I don’t think Lucy needs anyone to look after her anymore. She never really did. I take your meaning. But I can’t agree.”

Wyatt looks startled. “Wait—what? Why?”

Flynn gives him a smile, one that he knows looks feral. He and Wyatt were a damn good team in Rittenhouse’s mansion in 1780. And he’s never one to go down without a fight. “Let’s take out these jackasses and both go home, huh?”

Wyatt’s grin is conspiratorial, and Flynn thinks that yeah, he could stand to have this guy as his friend.

Their moment of ass-kicking is rather derailed by the mysterious appearing and disappearing act of Jane, but as he moves through the darkened building with Wyatt, checking, _clear, clear,_ in sync, and Flynn feels relief to know that if they do come back and something’s changed, Wyatt’s going to let him hold onto Lucy. Because he did promise her, _don’t let me go_ , and he keeps his promises.

 

* * *

 

She can’t believe what a close call that was. Her chest is heaving, she’s gripping Denise’s hand in a death grip, there’s no air in this tiny space and everyone was shooting at them and she almost had to leave Denise behind, she almost, she almost—

“Breathe, Lucy,” someone says, but they sound so far away.

“Claustrophobia,” Rufus shouts over the sound of the Lifeboat groaning, and Lucy nearly hurls as she feels them jolt and shudder to a stop. “Wyatt used to work her through it, so does Flynn—”

They were there, they were shooting at them, Denise would have died and she couldn’t have done anything to stop it and she’s stuck in a tin can and she can’t _breathe_ —

“ _Draga_ , Lucy, Lucy.”

She feels Flynn lifting her out of the Lifeboat, into his arms, and she grips onto him and sobs so hard it’s almost a dry heave. She holds onto Flynn tightly, so tightly it must hurt him, but he never complains, and the world stops spinning and crushing her and starts to slow down, and steady, and expand.

“Where are we?” Denise asks. “When are we?”

“Montana,” Rufus says. “December, 1899.”

“Merry fucking Christmas,” Wyatt mumbles.

Lucy tucks her face into Flynn’s neck as he gently sets her feet back onto the ground. “We’re all alive,” Flynn says, and she feels his voice rumbling in his chest, against her body.

“For now,” Rufus notes.

Her breathing slowly, slowly, slowly evens out. Flynn keeps holding her as the others bicker and Denise takes charge, his hand rubbing slowly up and down her back. It could have gone worse, she supposes. She could have lost him. He could have lost her—and Flynn’s definitely got that on his mind if the way his lips tremble as he kisses the top of her head is any indication. They’re all alive, nobody’s injured.

It could have gone worse.

 

* * *

 

Flynn would have to be a much bigger idiot than he is to fail to see how shaken up Lucy is. Her claustrophobia in the Lifeboat is something she’s come to generally control, but that was—that was rough.

He nearly lost her. They nearly lost Denise. And Lucy is painfully aware of the fact. He can see it in every movement, in the lines of her face, in the dark look in her eyes.

They spend most of the day setting up the cabin. Winter’s here, and they’re woefully unprepared, so he and Wyatt set about chopping down what feels like a whole forest while Jiya guides the others in winter-proofing the cabin. And of course, there’s just one room for sleeping in, holding a bunk bed and then a queen.

Denise immediately assigns the women in the larger bed, sharing, while the men rotate through the bunk bed.

“One of you will have to be on the floor, you’ll take turns,” she says.

Flynn’s none too happy about the idea of no longer sleeping with Lucy in his arms, but he sees the logic of it. The three women are small enough to fit on the bigger bed, and there’s no way to be fair to everyone if they let the couples sleep together.

Their progress is halted once it gets dark out. Jiya shows Denise and Lucy how to cook dinner, although she warns the men she’s teaching them tomorrow. Flynn has a feeling he’ll be chopping a lot of wood in the near future—no pun intended—and that they’re all about to get real sick of each other.

Rufus takes Jiya’s hand once dinner’s wrapped up. “If it’s all right, we’re going to steal the bedroom, just to talk,” he says.

Flynn remembers the passionate kiss the two shared right before getting on the Lifeboat in 1971. Denise nods. “I’ll clean up dinner.”

Wyatt notices Lucy not-so-stealthily inching her way towards Flynn. Flynn’s noticed it too, although he’s been stoically trying to keep looking at Rufus. “I’ll help,” Wyatt announces, grabbing some dishes to help clear up.

Well, looks like the guy’s finally starting to develop some tact. Flynn remembers their conversation earlier, when they both thought they might die. It looks like Wyatt’s been doing some real growth while Flynn was busy working out his relationship with Lucy, and he’s glad for it. Lucy and Wyatt were friends once, and he had also once wanted the guy on his side, so… he really is glad.

Lucy’s hand slides into his under the table. “Walk with me?” she whispers.

Flynn nods, standing up. He wraps his arm around her as they step out into the dark. He, Wyatt, and Jiya got them what coats and all they could to brave the snow while Rufus took the Lifeboat for Lucy and Denise, but there’s still the wind chill, and he tries to shield Lucy from the worst of it.

“Where are we going?” he asks as he realizes that Lucy is decidedly leading him somewhere. It’s pitch dark out here, he has no idea how she’s finding her way.

“The Lifeboat,” Lucy replies.

It’s not a very long walk away, just enough that they can hope nobody stumbles upon it, and he helps her to climb inside. He would’ve thought this was the last place Lucy wanted to be after earlier, but she lets him slide the hatch closed to keep out the wind and snow.

Then she promptly climbs into his lap.

Flynn wraps his arms around her. Her cheeks are stung pink with cold, her hair’s coming out of the bun she threw it into, and her hands are freezing where they burrow under his shirt and press against his chest, seeking warmth.

She’s beautiful.

“I just wanted some time alone,” Lucy admits in a whisper. She brushes her lips softly against his cheek, nudging her nose with his. “We won’t get a lot of it.”

No, they won’t, it’s true. And Lucy’s a very warm, very soft, tight body determinedly wiggling in his lap…

“This isn’t—I’m not avoiding anything,” she whispers. Her hands slide down, out from underneath his clothes, and then up again to gently push his coat off him. He feels her inhale shakily. “I’m scared. I’m scared that everything that we do to stop Rittenhouse might also bring us closer to losing the people we’re trying to bring back. Including… including each other.” She takes another deep breath, and shucks her own coat. “I don’t know what we’re going to do next and I feel like I should, like we need to have a plan instead of just reacting to theirs, but this—backfired, obviously.”

“You don’t have to have all the answers, Lucy.” He tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers lightly brushing down her cheek. “We’ll figure them out.”

She nods, still looking nervous, on edge. “I just wanted you to know, this isn’t, um, my usual. I just wanted to get some time with you before we’re stuck sharing a room with everyone for God knows how long.”

Well, he’s always been a weak man where Lucy is concerned. And they are still talking. He never meant for them to stop having sex, he just didn’t want her to use it as a replacement for communication.

“And…” Lucy leans in, a wicked smile on her face. “…you look really good in western gear.”

He can’t help the smirk that steals across his face at that. “Well, ma’am,” he drawls, in what he knows is a horrible western accent, “if I can be of assistance…”

Lucy giggles, kissing him to shut him up.

They divest their clothes quickly, using them as bedding since the Lifeboat’s metal floors are far from comfortable. Lucy presses him down onto the pile of clothes with a soft press of her palm to his chest, and Flynn pulls her on top of him, kissing her until she’s no longer shivering in his arms. There’s a sense of urgency but also a sense of savoring, of lingering, because he really doesn’t know how often they’ll be able to sneak out and do this, in the Lifeboat or in the woods. He’ll take her against a tree because Lucy is insatiable and he can’t say no to her and he’s very much addicted to her by now, but it’s far from ideal.

So for now he takes his time, kissing down her neck, along her shoulders, sucking her breasts into his mouth, tugging on her nipple just a little with his teeth the way that she likes, the way that makes her moan. He knows her body so well by now, he doesn’t need any lights. It’s pitch dark here in the Lifeboat but he doesn’t care. He slides his hands over her, feels the familiar curves, noses along her quickly warming skin. He knows her better than he knows the inside of the bunker, better than he knows the back of his hand, better than he knows his own face.

Lucy, for once, isn’t in a feisty mood. It’s like they’re in a cocoon, warm and safe, and she kisses him musingly, deeply, runs her hands through his hair, guides his face down to kiss along the planes of her stomach, to nip at her hips. When she shifts over him, her thighs on either side of his face, he takes his time sucking the soft inner skin of her thighs, licking up through her slick folds, nosing through them until he delicately laps at her clit, making her shudder. Lucy’s impatient, but she lets him tease her, her hips shaking with the effort of staying still and not thrusting into his mouth.

He’s just fine with letting her come like this, wants to feel that against his mouth, wants to taste her, but Lucy apparently has other ideas and pulls away, sliding down, taking him in her hand. He can sense her mouth before he feels it, kissing slow, sucking kisses along his chest as she guides him into her. He wraps his arms around her and feels a sudden flash of fear, another reason they won’t be able to do this often—

They don’t have condoms, and Lucy wouldn’t have thought to bring her birth control with her.

“Your shot,” he whispers.

Lucy tightens around him, like she thinks he’ll yank himself out of her. “I should still be good for another couple of weeks,” she whispers. “Just—just this once, we’ll be fine.”

Just this once, then. Because she feels so goddamn good and he can hear the fear of rejection in her voice and he does love her impossibly.

He reaches up, catches some of her hair, twines it around his fingers. “Someday,” he tells her. “I was thinking—I’d want one with your eyes.” It hurts, to say out loud, like speaking it will cause the universe to snatch it from him, even before it’s actually happened. “I want our child to have your eyes, and your smile.”

He can’t see, but he feels Lucy’s chest heaving, hears the noise she’s trying to keep back. She kisses him, and he tastes salt. “Two?” she whispers. “Could we—two?”

Two. Yes. With dark hair, and big dark eyes, and the wide, electric smile of their mother. “I think that’s a good number.”

Lucy does get a bit frantic then, thrusting down onto him and kissing him over and over. She fucks him like she’s taking the _save a horse, ride a cowboy_ adage to heart, until he flips her over, momentarily slides out of her to hitch his leg over, and slides in again, cradling her, and she lets him fuck her deep and slow. She nips at his throat, marks him with her nails, as the rest of the world is blocked out and they can pretend that they’ve made it, Rittenhouse is gone, and they’re safe in a home in a proper bed and they do this every night and they’re going to create a child from it and they’re happy and everyone he loves is safe, safe, _safe_.

They kiss afterwards, slow and exploratory, their bodies entwined in the dark. “You’re not alone,” he whispers. “We’ll figure it out, all of us, we’ll get through this.”

“What if we’re not the same by the end?” Lucy asks, her voice just as quiet. “The things we’ve done…”

“You told me once,” he says, sliding his thumb over her lips, “that I could still be a husband. A father. The same goes for you.”

“And what if the timeline changes while we’re stuck here? What if I wake up one morning and—and—” Her voice goes thick. “And you’re gone? Or we’re… polite, but distant, teammates and—and nothing more?”

“Then we’ll become something more,” he asserts. He has loved her from the moment he met her and he feels, somehow, he loved her before that. Not that he didn’t, or doesn’t, love Lorena. But it feels like something across all timelines tugs him towards her, intertwines them. He doesn’t believe in much, not anymore, but he believes in this. In her.

Lucy clings to him in the dark. “Just don’t let me go.”

He feels her eyelashes brushing against his cheeks, her warm breath against his lips, the supple warmth of her skin beneath the pads of his fingers. He’s selfish, and weak, when she might be happier with someone else, but… “Never.”

Lucy kisses him, and he holds her, and he doesn’t let her go.


	20. Stagecoach Mary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a month of rough living, all six of them crammed into a cabin in the middle of winter with very little in the way of food and supplies, they’ve all fallen into routines. Rufus and Jiya work on the Lifeboat, Flynn and Wyatt make sure they have a steady supply of firewood and what food they can find, Denise and Lucy watch the cabin, keep up their water supplies...they all have routines. It all works. 
> 
> But Lucy’s pulling away. And Flynn doesn’t know what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the longer than usual wait, everyone. This chapter was truly a team effort (as in I tried for a little over a week with every scene like pulling teeth before finally throwing my hands up and asking Mads to see if she could wrangle these fools), but between the two of us we have finally succeeded? There is A Chapter at any rate. Enjoy.

The first two nights of what Lucy mentally deems the camping trip from hell, she does actually try to sleep in the main bed with Jiya and Denise. She tries. Curls under the blanket and presses close to Jiya to share warmth, shuts her eyes, and tries. It doesn’t work. Every whistle of wind from outside, every creak of the cabin settling, every sound of wild animals in the distance makes her mind leap—is it Rittenhouse, are they safe, did they find them? 

Needless to say, she sleeps like shit. On the third night, after maybe an hour of once more lying awake, she slips out of bed, shivering lightly as the cold air hits her, and crosses the distance to where Flynn is asleep in the lower of the two bunks. Lucy reaches out, brushing his hair back, and Flynn starts awake, grabbing her hand tightly before making the connection and releasing her. 

“Lucy? Are you okay?” His voice is rough, quiet, but that doesn’t mask his concern. 

“I’m fine,” she assures. “I just—it’s silly but I can’t sleep.”

_I can’t sleep without you._

There’s no space. It’s even smaller than their bed in the bunker, Flynn himself doesn’t even really fit, but his eyes soften in the dark and he lifts the blanket in silent invitation. Lucy’s heart pangs—it’s such a simple thing, but she loves him, loves him, loves him—and she climbs in immediately, curling up on his chest as he wraps his arms around her and kisses her hair. She sighs as she settles, her mind going quiet. 

Safe. In his arms she is safe. And protected. And loved. And for just a moment, nothing else matters—not the cabin, not the fact that they’re trapped with a broken time machine, none of it. 

She sleeps. 

“Seriously? I slept on the floor last night.”

Lucy wakes up slowly, hushed voices and quiet movement in the background pulling her attention. 

Rufus. 

“And it’s the first time she’s slept since we’ve gotten here.” Jiya. “It’s adorable. Leave them be.” 

“You know, if we’re not sticking to the system...”

A laugh. “Come on, flyboy. We’ve got work to do.” 

“I’m just saying—“

The door opens and shuts, cold air creeping in and making Lucy shiver. She forces her eyes open when Flynn shifts underneath her, his arms tightening a fraction. 

“Morning,” he murmurs, and Lucy hums. A quick glance around reveals Denise is also nowhere to be found, and the lack of noise from the upper bunk means either Wyatt’s cleared out as well or is still dead to the world. She takes the opportunity to steal a kiss, then another for good measure. 

“Am I squishing you?” She asks, settling back again with her head on his shoulder, not ready to get up, to pop the bubble of peace and privacy they’ve been gifted for at least a few minutes. 

Flynn’s fingers drag slowly up her spine as though savoring the touch. “If you were, I still wouldn’t want you to move.” 

Her next kiss lands under his jaw—he hasn’t shaved, his skin rough under her lips, but she doesn’t mind. Far from it. 

“I didn’t realize it would be so difficult,” she admits. “Sleeping without you.”

She’s done it—what, three times?—more or less since they committed to this, and two of those were because they’d fought. But she hasn’t shared a bed with someone with any sort of frequency since college, and back then she hadn’t really thought about it. 

“It’s—once you get used to it, it can be hard to...adjust. When you can’t...”

Flynn’s eyes go shadowed, far away for a moment, and Lucy’s heart aches for him when she realizes. They’ve had months, but he and Lorena were married for years. If she can’t sleep without him now, she can’t even imagine what it must have been like for him after having his wife ripped away. 

Lucy cups his cheek, presses her forehead to his. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. Her nose brushes his. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” 

Flynn shakes his head and kisses her. “I understand, is all I wanted to say. So if you need to climb into bed with me in the middle of the night, that’s okay. It’s not silly. And you’re not the only one who needed it.”

Lucy curls her fingers into his shirt and bites her lip. 

“Are we going to get through this?” It’s barely a whisper. She hasn’t wanted to say it, but it was so close, her and Denise getting out. So close. And now the Lifeboat is a wreck and they’re stuck in 1900 and what if this is it? What if this is how they lose? 

It can’t have all been for nothing, right? It can’t just come down to this. 

Right?

“Yes,” Flynn replies. “We will.” 

They have to get up. There are chores to do, a million little things all of them are still trying to figure out. But Lucy closes her eyes again and lets him hold her a while longer. 

_We will._

* * *

Lucy’s pulling away from him. 

Well. Not just him. Everyone. 

After a month of rough living, all six of them crammed into a cabin in the middle of winter with very little in the way of food and supplies, they’ve all fallen into routines. Rufus and Jiya work on the Lifeboat, Flynn and Wyatt make sure they have a steady supply of firewood and what food they can find, Denise and Lucy watch the cabin, keep up their water supplies...they all have routines. It all works. 

But Lucy’s pulling away. And Flynn doesn’t know what to do. 

It’s not like after Chinatown where he worried about her silences because of the darkness and the rage lingering beneath them. As the days go on, she’s just quiet. Withdrawn. Trapped in her own head or deliberately hiding there, he’s not sure which, but it’s hard to watch. There’s no privacy, no real time or space to talk—they could try to find some, but it’s bitterly cold out, far from ideal for long walks among the pines. And sneaking off to the Lifeboat isn’t as feasible as they might like given that Rufus or Jiya or both of them seem to almost always be there. 

On occasion, Lucy has dragged Flynn out just to press him back against the outer cabin walls, to kiss him and get her hands under his clothes and vice versa, but those stolen, rushed fumbles in the cold aren’t a replacement for conversation. Or other forms of intimacy. 

They sleep together every night, even when it means she joins him on the floor, but neither of them are used to the other types of casual affection they share in the privacy of their bunker room being observed. She doesn’t touch him as often now, and he is uncomfortably aware of the number of other people around whenever he dares to reach out. It’s a strange shift. But he doesn’t quite know how to bridge the gap. 

She asked him weeks ago if they would make it through this and he said they would, he promised himself they would, that he would make it happen. But now it’s been a month and they don’t seem to be any closer to getting home and he can’t fix it. He can’t fix anything. 

But...just because he rarely gets a chance to be alone with her doesn’t mean no one does. And if he can’t talk to her, maybe...

Denise doesn’t laugh in his face when he asks during a spare moment when Lucy is off doing laundry, for which he’s grateful. Instead, she just looks at him. Looks until Flynn itches uncomfortably under the collar at the scrutiny. 

It’s not that he wanted to ask her. Lord knows Flynn is extremely well aware that Denise Christopher has never been his biggest fan and that her opinion of his relationship with Lucy must be dubious at best. But nonetheless, she is the person who ends up alone with Lucy most often these days. And whatever her feelings on Flynn, she cares about Lucy. So if there’s even a chance it could help, if there’s even a chance Lucy might be convinced to talk to someone else, he can swallow his pride and his feelings and do what’s necessary. 

“I was going to talk to her anyway,” Denise says finally. “But I’ll admit, I’m surprised you’re asking for help. The snow is starting to melt, it’s getting a little warmer—if we end up stuck here much longer you could have found a way to make a private conversation happen.”

“It’s not about me,” Flynn interrupts. “Yes, maybe I could have waited it out, but Lucy—Lucy needs people, more than just me. I want her to talk to all of you, I want her to know she can and to be comfortable with that, because—because I can’t be everything for her all the time. And because if anything ever happened to me, I would want her to be okay. I can’t be all she has.” 

And that is the heart of it. He knows how heavily Lucy leans on him, how much she relies on him. But he also knows from experience how unsustainable that is. It was why Lorena dragged him to therapy after he came back from Somalia. Because one person cannot be everything to another. One person cannot fix everything for another. 

She needs other people. And if he can make sure she gets that, he damn well will. 

“What do you think is going to happen?” Denise asks. 

Flynn deflects instead of answering outright. There are still some things he isn’t willing to share. 

“We’re both soldiers, Agent Christopher. And this is a war. I think we can be realistic about all potential outcomes, don’t you?” 

Denise glances out the window to where Lucy is still visible in the distance. Her lips press together in a thin line, her brow creases. 

“And what about you?” She asks. “If you lost her instead—what happens after that?” 

“If that happened, there wouldn’t be an after.” 

She looks back to him for another long moment, then nods. 

“I’ll talk to her.” 

“Thank you.”

It’s not a truce. It doesn’t change anything about how they work together. Flynn knows she still doesn’t like him, doesn’t trust him, probably doesn’t think he’s good enough for Lucy, but it’s an understanding. For the moment at least, on this, they understand each other. 

When Lucy returns, she is on edge, brittle, her voice high and thin and fracturing. Flynn catches Denise’s eyes over the top of Lucy’s head. 

“Flynn, I believe it’s your turn to muck out the outhouse,” Denise says, and he looks between her and Lucy before nodding. 

“I suppose...” 

And when he steps outside, he only feels relief. 

Lucy lost her mother. But she didn’t lose everything. And she doesn’t only have him.

* * *

Lucy figures that she probably should have known Denise would say something after a while. She’s aware that her temper is fraying, a too-thin quilt, stretched and worn and threadbare. She knows Wyatt has been exchanging colorful silent conversations with Flynn using his eyebrows and that Jiya has been tentative in how she lays her hand on Lucy’s arm, asking if Lucy would like something. They’re all exhausted and frustrated and on edge but she knows, she is painfully aware like she’s got a knife to her throat and she knows that she’s the one who’s standing closest to the edge.

Denise’s mothering is kind. Thoughtful. Lucy appreciates it. She also hates it, because it’s bringing pain and fear to the surface and she can’t control either and she’d rather just avoid it all until they can get back to the bunker—or wherever they will be—and lose herself and break down.

Because she can’t break down right now. She can’t.

“Even if we make it back,” she admits, ghosts wrapping their chains around her neck, “I can’t have any of that again.”

“You could make a new one, someday.”

“I don’t know.” She doesn’t know, she really doesn’t. She isn’t who she was, and she doesn’t know who she is, and she wants Amy but she isn’t sure if she knows how to live with Amy in her life anymore, if she hasn’t gotten used to… and what if whoever she’s become can’t handle normal… what if war is all she’s fit for now?

“What about—“ Denise clears her throat. Stops. Takes a breath and starts over. “What about Flynn? You think the two of you couldn’t...”

Lucy’s eyes blur and she swipes at them, trying not to let tears fall. 

“He wants to spend the rest of his life with me,” she confesses, and Denise makes a small sound of surprise. “But I don’t—even talking about it feels like lighting up a flare for the universe to yank the rug out from under me. I want so many things, things I never thought about before—they were always in the abstract, a maybe eventually if I ever found the time, but I was so busy and I didn’t really care if that time ever came and now—”

She breaks off and wraps her arms around herself, biting her lip. 

“What if we can’t figure out how to live without this war?” Lucy asks quietly. “We’ve never even really had a date, what do we know about making a life together? What if we can’t—what if I can’t—”

“You can,” Denise interrupts, and Lucy’s eyes flick back to her. Denise covers Lucy’s hand and squeezes. “Look, Lucy, I may not understand your relationship, I may not be the most supportive of Flynn, but I will say that—that he knows what it’s like to build a life after war. He is a soldier. He’s done it before. Which in no way means it’ll be easy, it doesn’t mean you can’t be scared. But...he is a soldier. And he has done this before, with, as far as I can tell, some success. And he...loves you. So if you trust him, then I think you can let him do some of the heavy lifting to make a future happen. If that’s what you want.” 

Lucy swallows hard. God, she’s afraid. Afraid to want it. She’s positively paralyzed with fear. And why shouldn’t she be? Her mother’s voice is in the back of her head saying she’s not good enough, that Flynn will realize that eventually, that she’ll be a terrible mother even if they do make everything work. 

Although, granted, none of that matters as long as they’re stuck here anyway.

“Do you want that?” Denise asks. Her voice is so gentle. Lucy wants to rail against it.

Lucy grips Denise’s hand, hard. Too hard, probably, but Denise doesn’t falter. “Yes.” The word is a whisper and it slices the inside of her throat, cuts the corners of her mouth.

Denise squeezes her hand one more time and then lets go, moving to start the next chore. There’s always a next chore. “Then I think you can let yourself want it, Lucy. I think Flynn’s made it clear he’s not going anywhere.”

God, she hopes that’s true.

* * *

The campfire is warm enough, she supposes. Mary Fields—and it says a lot that she can barely muster up enthusiasm over meeting such a badass woman—has gotten Rufus and Wyatt to help her with the horses, so it’s just Lucy and Flynn for now.

They’ve been running themselves roughshod all day. They’ve been pushing themselves all month, honestly, but this is more than just the day-to-day hard living they’ve been trying to adapt to. But they’ve managed pretty well so far. They’ve gotten horses and Mary Fields, and Lucy honestly wouldn’t trade her for a whole posse of cowboys.

They just have to get to Idaho. To where the new safehouse will be, someday, in the future. To where Mason can grab them and haul them forward in time.

Wyatt suggested splitting up some more. But Rufus objected to that, and Lucy agreed. They’ve already left Jiya and Denise behind. She doesn’t want anyone else splitting off. Not Rufus and Wyatt, two of her friends—and especially not Flynn.

She really, really doesn’t want to be separated from Flynn.

She leans against him, taking advantage of being alone. Flynn wraps his arm around her. “How are you?”

“Fine.”

“You always say that.”

She suspects Denise and Flynn are manning a conspiracy. “Well, it’s true. Anything else doesn’t matter right now.”

She glances up and sees Flynn wrestling with himself. It’s so odd, how she used to see nothing but unfathomable depths in his eyes and now, now he’s an open book.

It also makes her hands shake, and not from the cold. Flynn’s gearing up to something, and he’s scared, and that makes her scared.

And he tells her.

He tells her about Emma, and the journal, Amy, the car crash…

Her head spins, it fucking spins and the ground nearly rises up to meet her. She can taste the acidic remains of breakfast in her mouth. 

“I’m starting to forget her,” blurts out of her before she can stop it.  
It’s the most that she’s talked about how she’s been feeling in weeks, since they made love in the Lifeboat, since they said two, two children, since they let themselves believe they could have a life together and she feels like this is a step backwards as she admits that she doesn’t know about her sister, her touchstone, doesn’t know about her old life and her new and she doesn’t know, she doesn’t know.

“I’m scared,” she ends it, at last. It doesn’t feel so much like setting something free as it does ripping something open. “I’m scared that I… I don’t know who to be, when we end this. If we end this. Ending it is—is terrifying enough. But I’m scared about what comes after that, too.”

Flynn watches the fire for a long moment. He’s gathering his thoughts, she can tell, but she can’t quite stand the silence right now, has to fill it up.

“I sometimes wish I could just go back to who I was before, and I know that I can’t. I was able to make it all right before, my life, but what if I can’t make it this time? What if… what if we…”

Flynn’s eyes slowly draw up to hers. “Would you rather… traveling on our own timeline, it’s not something done lightly. As you—the other you—has shown us.”

The other her. The one she can’t remember. The one who tried to tell her something, something important, and she can’t figure out what it is. Her stomach twists and heaves.

“If there’s ever a time when you do have the chance, if there’s a moment where you are in fact going to take the journal back to me in Brazil… you can choose to go back and save your sister instead. I’d—I’d understand.”

Instead of giving him the journal in São Paulo.

Lucy’s stomach stops twisting if only because it drops out altogether.

“Why would you say that?” she whispers. “Why would you even say that?”

How could she, how could anyone—what kind of Sophie’s choice is that? Choose her beloved sister, her darling, her Amy, or Flynn, her lover, her partner, her—her soulmate?

It’s a word, just a word, the kind of word she had loved to mock once but it feels like a puzzle piece, soft and gentle as snow, is falling into place inside of her chest and she almost sobs.  
How could she ever choose?

Flynn shrugs in a helpless sort of way. Like he’s as adrift as she is, and it finally occurs to her that for all of his knowledge and strategy and sheer intelligence… he doesn’t always have the answers, either.  
She lunges across and kisses him once, hard, Flynn going stiff in surprise the way he used to when they were so new to this, when they kissed with fire and blood instead of with the soft, roots-deep affection they do now. The fact that he would even offer that to her…

“I want there to be an after,” she admits. “But I’m terrified of what that after will look like. And I wish I could go back. But that doesn’t mean I’d—I’d never give up—you’re not expendable to me.”

Flynn brushes her hair out of her face, his eyes wet and aching, and she’d erase every line of grief in his face if she could. For once, he looks old. Not physically. But like something inside of him has lived for hundreds, thousands of years.

She feels just as old, herself.

“Oh.”

She turns her head.

Wyatt looks absolutely mortified to be interrupting them. “I’ll, um, I’ll just—” He looks around for an excuse, finds none, and stares determinedly up at the sky like it’s a giant flat screen showcasing the Dallas Cowboys game.

Doesn’t matter. The moment’s gone. She appreciates Wyatt’s attempts, though, and his increased self-awareness. Flynn’s arm tightens around her shoulders and she turns her head to bury her face in his neck.

Does he think he’s expendable? Has she not loved him enough for him to see that such a choice would be impossible to her? That it would be cruel and unfair to even ask her? For him to sacrifice himself like that… it doesn’t surprise her, really. It does a little but at the same time—Flynn is not a man given to halfhearted devotion.

But for him to think she’d be all right with that sacrifice…

Wyatt’s keeping his distance so she nudges Flynn’s neck with her nose. “I love you.”

Flynn turns his face, kisses her hair. “I know,” he reassures her. She can hear the small, wry smile in his voice. “I love you.”

Here’s hoping it’s enough of a buoy to keep them afloat.

* * *

To say Wyatt’s not looking good would be a goddamn understatement, and it’s only how bad the guy clearly feels for it—as if getting shot was something Wyatt could control—that keeps Flynn’s sass from unleashing. First Rufus, now Wyatt. Clearly they need to stay away from the end of the 19th century.

But they’re here, they’re at the Lifeboat, they’re back with Jiya and Denise, and if Wyatt can just hold out for a little longer they can save him. Might even save his arm along with it.

It’s good to find your family, Mary Fields said. It’s crazy, but maybe—it’s also true. Even Wyatt. Flynn’s managed to start caring for the bastard. They’re family.

And now he just has to get his family home.

They’re so close, they’re so very close, he can almost taste the 21st century, and then—

Temple.

Flynn’s rage burns in him like the plague, like fever, like a ravaging cancer, eating him up alive. This man, this is the man that tried to turn him against the woman he loves, this is the man who nearly killed her, or worse, this is the new boogeyman, and Flynn wants to get his hands around that neck—

Except then Temple tries to coax Lucy with her losses, tries the honey approach, luring the flies, and adds, “And Mr. Flynn, have you told them about all their discussions?”

It was just the once and it could hardly be called a discussion, but the words work well enough. Denise looks startled, then suspicious. 

“You told me you didn’t see him,” Denise says, and Flynn opens his mouth to respond—

“Stop it,” Lucy snaps before he can say a word. Her eyes are narrowed, burning with hate as she glares at Temple. If she had a gun, Flynn’s almost positive the other man would be dead by now. 

Temple smiles, still clearly thinking he’s in control. “I imagine it must be difficult to hear—”

“He told me everything.” Lucy cuts him off. “Everything you said, everything you offered him. What, you thought he wouldn’t because you told him not to trust me? You think we’re that easily fractured? You don’t know us at all.”

“So he told you that he agreed for us to try and bring his wife and child back, if he told us where the bunker was? That is how we found it.”

Flynn is honestly wondering if he needs to grab Lucy by the back of her dress so that she doesn’t actually launch herself at Temple to beat him to death.

Wyatt, of all people, steadies his aim at Temple. “I met Jessica in Pasadena, she said she planted the bug. She knew where the bunker was, it was her. Flynn didn’t give us up.”

Flynn has the very odd sensation of wanting to hug Wyatt. He hopes this doesn’t become a habit.

They could keep talking around and around in circles forever, posturing, but then Jiya decides she’s got an ace up her sleeve.

Flynn’s sure he’s not the only one who has a moment where his heart seems to stop. Where he thinks—Jiya might not survive what she’s doing right now.

“I think I’m getting something!” Rufus yells from inside the Lifeboat. He sounds ripped in half and Flynn can’t blame him. He’s worried for Jiya himself but if that were Lucy doing… whatever Jiya’s currently managing to do… he doesn’t think he could be persuaded to move for anything.

Temple’s managed to shut up, thanks to Mary Fields, not that he didn’t manage to get a parting shot in about Flynn’s family. He knows Lorena and Iris aren’t alive, Rittenhouse doesn’t have them, but God what if they did what if his girls are being held hostage for reasons they don’t understand—it’s not real, it’s not, but it’s a what-if that he can’t let himself contemplate or he’ll jump off the deep end again.

He steadies himself, points his gun back at Temple. They need to come back for two people anyway. “If you’re getting something, if the computers are back on, go!”

“No.” Lucy’s shaking her head. “No, no, Garcia, I’m not—”

Flynn jerks his head at Denise. “Go!”

She grabs Lucy with one arm and Wyatt with the other. Wyatt sags and Lucy helps to catch him.

Flynn is one hundred percent certain Wyatt did that on purpose. The look Wyatt sends him a moment later confirms it.

Lucy and Denise haul Wyatt into the Lifeboat, and Flynn keeps one eye on Temple and one on Jiya so he can’t see what Lucy does next but he hears an angry yell, and he’s guessing Denise had something to do with it, and then the Lifeboat is vanishing.

His throat goes tight. He wants to get back to Lucy. He will do everything, anything, to get back to her. But at least she’s safe. She’s taken care of.

Jiya, on the other hand…

When it’s all over, Jiya—he can’t wake her up. She’s deadweight. A rag doll in his arms.

Flynn’s heart cracks a little. Everyone on this damn team—okay except maybe Denise—has wormed their way into his heart a little and Jiya will never, ever replace Iris, just as Lucy will never, ever replace Lorena but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love, that he can’t love, even if that love is unique to the person, and he feels that parental terror all over again and he really, really hopes that she’s okay.

Not that he conveys any of this to Rufus. He picks Jiya up and carries her over carefully, and just assures Rufus that his (girlfriend? Wife? Their relationships are all too intense but nobody’s done anything legal and like himself and Lucy, Flynn suspects that Jiya and Rufus have an understanding but no label) will be fine.

Then, at last, he turns back to Mary Fields.

She’s a hell of a woman, Flynn has to admit. He’s enjoyed spending time with her and he’s definitely appreciated having her on their side. The only one not personally affected by all this nonsense, the only one who kept a cool head. They needed that.

That doesn’t mean he sees the kiss on the cheek coming.

Coming from someone else, you ain’t the worst would be a backhanded compliment. But from Fields… it’s the highest of praises.

Flynn knows he’s being awkward as he nods at her, because, well, what do you even say to that, and as Lorena and Lucy can both attest if anyone cared to ask, his skills with things like romance are so low they’re underground, but he also can’t help but smile a little as the shock wears off and he climbs into the Lifeboat.

It’s always nice to be told by a woman like that that you’ve won her over.

He helps Rufus with Jiya, who’s still terrifyingly out cold, and then straps himself in.

He’s got another hell of a woman who’s probably raising Hell waiting for him.

* * *

She waits with bated breath in the Lifeboat bay with Mason.

Flynn and Jiya were stuck back there, and Jiya can’t hold Stanley forever, even if that unleashing of power was something Lucy hadn’t expected, that nobody could ever expect—but she’s just stuck here, helpless, while Flynn is trapped in the past and could be stuck there forever, separated from her by time and space and she won’t ever get him back and oh God she doesn’t care that she’s scared about the future, about after, she doesn’t care she doesn’t care so long as he’s with her she can’t do this without him she can’t live—

There’s the alert, the rush of air, and the Lifeboat careens into the space in front of them.  
Lucy’s heart finally starts beating properly again. She grabs the steps and wheels them over, gripping the cold metal with everything inside of her.

The door opens and Rufus climbs out, and then she sees Flynn pass an unconscious Jiya to Rufus. “Is she all right?” Lucy asks. Jiya looks so pale, so cold…

“I don’t know,” Rufus admits, his voice rough and little more than a whisper.

Mason hurries over to help Rufus get Jiya into the bedroom she shares with Rufus. Or so Lucy assumes. She only got a cursory tour from Mason when she, Denise, and Wyatt arrived.

Flynn looks at her from the top of the steps, a small, crooked smile on his face. She can’t stand to be away, her heart feels like it might give out, after what Temple said and after nearly leaving him behind…

Flynn moves down the steps and she gives a little jump, and he catches her instinctively as she kisses him—and this time he’s not stiff at all, almost as if he expected it, his lips moving warm and knowing against hers. Her feet are dangling off the floor a bit but his arms keep her secure, and God, God, she loves him. They’re back in the 21st century, they’re all together again, they’ll have their own room again, they’re all safe, for now.

For now.

“Careful, or I might think you were worried about me,” he tells her, his voice light and soft in the way it only gets with her.

He’s holding her up enough that she can run her hands through his hair before bringing them down to trace the lines of his face and cup his cheeks. “Maybe,” she whispers. She brushes her lips against his. “I do love you, after all.”

“I’d note the wonderful privacy we now have,” Flynn says, as she muses kisses along his jaw because she can, and she wants to, so she does. “But mostly right now I’m hoping Denise gave us a large enough bed. And hoping we can pass out for a few hours.”

Sleeping in a nice, proper bed, in his arms, sounds like the perfect night after the day, weeks, month, they’ve had. “There’s also indoor plumbing.”

“I’ll wash your hair.”

“Mmm, since you asked so nicely…”

Flynn moves and she gives a small shriek of surprise as he proceeds to walk with her out of the bay and she has to wrap her legs around him. “Garcia.” Her chastisement is rather ruined by her laughter.

“I’ve missed that laugh,” Flynn tells her.

She realizes she hasn’t actually laughed in… she can’t remember the last time. But she’s laughing now. She’s happy, right now.

They shower, and she does let Flynn wash her hair, and they kiss slow and deep under the warm spray, and the bed is in fact nice and big, and Flynn gets in first and lifts his arm and the blankets and she slides right into both, relishing the thick mattress, the space to stretch her legs, and the fact that he still lets her use his shoulder as a pillow, still wraps his arms around her and holds her.

“I’m still scared,” she whispers. “But I want you with me. I know that much. I just don’t want to… to fail, I don’t want us to fail.”

“We won’t,” Flynn promises. “If we keep choosing to be together and to make it work.” He combs idly through her hair.

They still haven’t quite said what they are, haven’t put a name on it, although there is an understanding between them—there has to be, after all, given that they want to spend the rest of their lives together, want children together. But plans aren’t a marriage ceremony and boyfriend is far too trite for what she means.

She wonders, if she kissed him and called him her soulmate, said it out loud, would he object? Would he think she was too sappy, too… too much? Or would he understand? Would he know that it feels like they have had to claw through the universe to get together, that there is a string from her to him, that there is something layers and layers deep that will be viciously torn from her if he is no longer in her life?

Maybe he would understand. After all, Flynn’s the one who has the faith in them. She’s the one who’s scared, who still feels like one misstep on her part and she’ll lose him to her own folly.

Maybe…

She’s asleep before she can even finish the thought.


	21. The Stonewall Riots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But now they have to jump to Greenwich Village, New York, on June 28th 1969, and Flynn knows without Lucy even saying what happens on that day.
> 
> And it occurs to him… oh.
> 
> Oh, there’s something he’s sort of forgotten to mention to Lucy.

Everyone, including probably Mason, passes out for an entire day. Temple’s clearly licking his wounds because the alarm doesn’t go off, although Lucy isn’t sure that everyone wouldn’t have slept through it if it did sound. Wyatt is hopped up on painkillers, obviously, and Jiya’s still out cold. Rufus probably tried to stay awake as long as he could but he needs sleep as much as the rest of them.

When Lucy finally wakes up, it’s because her pillow is shifting.

This is not an acceptable change of events, and a small, unhappy noise escapes her as she clamps her arm down tighter and buries her face further in.

Her pillow chuckles. “Sure the sleeping beauty doesn’t want some coffee?”

…now that he’s mentioned it, she can smell delicious, delicious caffeine. And she hasn’t had a decent cup of coffee in a month. It was hard to say who complained more about the state of the coffee in Montana, Wyatt or Flynn.

Lucy cracks open an eye.

Somehow, without her waking up, Flynn has managed to sneak out of bed, acquire a newspaper and two cups of coffee, a pen, and Pop Tarts, and then managed to slide back into bed so that she could keep sleeping on his chest.

She definitely considers blowing him then and there but. Coffee. And Pop Tarts.

Flynn moves his arm so that she can sit up, passing her a mug (two sugars, drop of cream, God she loves him) and the plate. Her stomach rumbles and Flynn politely ignores the way she scarfs down the food like she’s a rabid hyena while he finishes up the crossword.

“Anyone else awake?” she asks, setting the plate aside and sipping the rest of her coffee.

“I think Denise is video calling Michelle,” Flynn notes. “I checked in on Wyatt and he seems on the mend but went back to sleep once I finished. Everyone else is still dead to the world.”

Lucy considers this.

She also considers the very lovely big bed they’re currently in. And the very lovely private room with thick walls. And the nearby shower to clean up in afterwards and the linen cupboard with extra sheets and the laundry room with a working washer and dryer.

She might (might) have burst into tears when Mason showed her that last part. She will never complain about 21st century laundry again.

Lucy finishes her coffee, sets the mug aside, then looks at the crossword. “Hudson,” she says.

Flynn raises an eyebrow. “I can do it on my own.”

“But now I told you, so you’re finished.” She plucks the newspaper out of his hands, takes the pen from between his fingers, and sets both aside.

She then replaces the newspaper in his lap with herself.

A sly grin steals over Flynn’s face. “Oh,” he murmurs, his hands settling on her hips. “I see how it is.”

Lucy rolls her hips. “Look what we have… all to ourselves…” She brushes her mouth against his. It’s been so long since they touched each other properly, did anything more than a few rushed fumbles, and she _aches_. She couldn’t even really find time to touch herself, and after months and months of regular and highly satisfying sex to nothing…

“Do we have supplies?” Flynn asks.

Lucy leans over and pulls out the bedside drawer where there is a handy-dandy box of condoms.

Because apparently, this time, Denise was not going to underestimate the horniness of her team.

“She’ll help me take the shot, like before, but we’ll still want to wait a week since it’s more than five days since my last period,” she admits, her cheeks flushing with unexpected nervousness. It’s long since time they started talking practically about this but she still feels that little voice in the back of her head telling her it’s not _ladylike_.

That voice sounds a lot like her mother. Lucy shoves it aside.

Flynn doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed, bless him, and she remembers that he did in fact go through the whole process of getting a woman pregnant once before, and he leans in and kisses her neck softly, small raindrops against her skin that have her melting and shivering all at once. “Best to be safe,” he agrees, his voice as soft as his lips on her neck. “We can do other things, if you’d rather…”

“No.” She shakes her head. She can remember when they first started doing this, and how much she did so love him going down on her and fingering her but how she’d always wanted more, had craved more… and it’s been a month… “I want you inside me.”

Flynn’s hands tighten at her hips and she feels him nod before he pulls back and she kisses him properly.

Oh, they can take their time. They can kiss nice and slow. They can press soft, musing kisses to each other’s mouths, she can relearn the shape of him, the way his tongue slides against hers, the way it feels when she arches against his chest, the way her eyelids flutter and her insides melt when he braces a hand at the small of her back and sucks a mark into her pulse point. She’s slept and showered away the grime of 1900 and now she can take her time and map him out with her hands all over again.

It feels wonderfully, terrifyingly normal to be like this, like this is just another lazy Sunday, breakfast in bed while Flynn reads the newspaper and then she distracts him by whispering _please, please, please_ into his mouth as he slides his hand up under her sleep shirt to cup her breast. Once she had to encourage him to touch her thoroughly, to take, and now he just does, comfortable in knowing that she wants it, that she wants _him_.

She can see herself doing this for the rest of her life and it thrills and scares her all at once.

And she does, in fact, blow him in a thank you for the coffee, getting under the blankets and mouthing down his chest as she pulls at his sweats, as Flynn gets his hand in her hair and swears as she toys with him. She takes her time, the way she couldn’t in prison, the way she didn’t want to after he told her about São Paulo. She feels him in her mouth, heavy on her tongue, stretching her, until Flynn’s legs are shaking slightly and she pulls back to give him a smirk that he kisses off her two seconds later.

Lucy settles back into his lap, lets him strip her of her pajamas, and lets Flynn flip her and take his time with her, although he doesn’t quite stop when she gets close the way she did with him, he simply hums and keeps licking into her, his hands braced on her thighs, his mouth sealing over her until she sobs out his name and falls apart.

“Y’know,” she manages to comment, after she’s pushed him down and crawled on top of him and is trying her best to be slow because the spirit is willing but the body would like to remind the spirit that it has in fact been a month and she needs a moment, “I think this is the first time we’re having a sex marathon.”

“I’m not sure an hour counts as a marathon,” Flynn points out.

“That suggests that you think we’re almost done and I hate to tell you, cowboy, that’s far from the case here.”

Flynn just laughs and grips her hips to help guide her and then kisses the smile from her lips.

 

* * *

 

As nice as a week of respite is, though, and as much as they all need it—especially Wyatt, who is both grateful and appalled when Flynn has to get him things from the high shelf because of Wyatt’s arm—they’re all waiting for the other shoe to drop. Something’s going on with Rittenhouse. It’s the only explanation for why they’ve been seeing so much of Temple and the whole new approach.

“Emma can’t like this,” Lucy points out, and Flynn has to agree.

Denise tries to see what she can find out, but mostly it’s a waiting game, and Flynn kind of hopes that if there is a power struggle going on that Emma ends up on top. Partially because if anyone gets to put a bullet in Emma besides him, it should be Lucy—not that he wants that burden on her shoulders but if we’re talking who’s got the most right here—and partially because at least Emma is the devil they all know. Emma’s a tiger but Temple’s a snake and Flynn knows which one he’d rather have to run into in the jungle.

And then Jiya wakes up out of a coma, somehow right as rain—and insisting that Rittenhouse has jumped.

The day started out so nicely, too. Lucy’s sitting on his lap because the kitchen chairs are still far from comfortable and he’s only half listening as she debates something with Wyatt, the two of them starting to fumble their way to a real friendship again, and Mason is showing him some Lifeboat schematics because Flynn expressed some interest in learning how to properly pilot and Mason, to his surprise, said _why the hell not_ , and Denise is quietly making toast.

It feels almost cozy.

But now they have to jump to Greenwich Village, New York, on June 28th 1969, and Flynn knows without Lucy even saying what happens on that day.

And it occurs to him… oh.

Oh, there’s something he’s sort of forgotten to mention to Lucy.

Lucy herself is a little… off. Not enough to make him worried. There’s her anger and frustrations against Rittenhouse and he recognizes those well enough. This isn’t the way she gets when she’s actively scared, or in her own head. And she’s not pulling away from him the way she got in Montana. This week has been good for her, for them, they’re starting to mention ‘after’ a few more times and it’s good, it’s very good, but—

Something’s off and he can’t quite figure out what it is.

Of course, getting one’s self kidnapped and chained down does rather put a damper on any plans to pull the love of one’s life aside and ask her what’s up, so he doesn’t really get a chance to discuss anything.

He and Wyatt make their way through the crowd, holding hands partially to keep from getting lost and partially because getting accused once by an angry Stonewall Inn patron of being cops is enough for one day, and if Flynn does have to punch someone, he’d like it to be someone in a blue uniform and not someone just trying to defend their right to live.

“Do you see them?” Wyatt asks, as Flynn uses his height to try and see over the crowd. This whole thing has Wyatt spooked, he’s been like a jackrabbit all day. Johnson’s remark about Wyatt’s dad probably getting to him, and then Flynn getting nabbed—Lucy told him, once, about the Alamo, about Wyatt’s unit, and after what Wyatt told him today he can see why the guy’s a little jumpy.

The crowd starts to part and he does, in fact, see them. Lucy looks shaken up, and Jiya’s got her hands on Lucy’s arms, rubbing up and down, soothing her.

Worry spikes in Flynn’s chest. Was Lucy hurt?

“I’ve got them,” he says, tugging on Wyatt’s hand to lead the way.

Lucy sees him and her eyes go wide. She rushes over, fear writ large on her face. “Lucy?” He lets go of Wyatt and catches her as she grabs him. “ _Draga_ , what’s wrong?”

“I’m just so glad you’re all right—” She stops, pulls back, sees the blood. “Oh, no. Oh no, you’re hurt, Garcia, let me see that.”

She manhandles him to sit down on a stoop, tears off part of her shirt, wets it in a sprinkler, and proceeds to clean him off. Wyatt and Jiya give him amused looks. Flynn flips them off behind Lucy’s back.

She’s spooked, spooked like Wyatt’s been spooked. Maybe even worse.

Flynn doesn’t think stopping for a drink is maybe the best idea, but… if Lucy wants it, if it’ll steady her to see everyone around them still laughing, chatting, having fun, living life the way they deserve… he’ll give it to her.

They scrunch into a booth. Jiya sticks to Lucy’s other side like glue, and technically they’re all still undercover so Wyatt’s on Flynn’s other side and doesn’t even glare when Flynn puts an arm around his shoulders. Lucy curls into his other side, her head resting in the curve of his arm, against his shoulder.

They don’t talk much, any of them. Just observe. Jiya, surprisingly, has the most energy and actually gets up to dance with a few people, make chatter, laughing. Flynn wishes Rufus could see it.

Wyatt, on the other hand, nearly falls asleep.

Lucy’s just quiet. Flynn bends down, whispers, “Everything all right?”

“Later,” she repeats. “Later.”

He has to cut them all off before they get too sleepy drunk (Wyatt) or crying drunk (Lucy) or too drunk to drive the Lifeboat (Jiya). Rufus’s face when they emerge in their camp gear, though, is priceless.

“Did you roll around in glitter?” Rufus asks Wyatt.

The look Wyatt gives him could melt a wall of concrete.

Jiya flings her arms around Rufus’s neck. “I am so popular with butches,” she announces. “Because I am _adorable_.”

Rufus looks at Flynn accusingly, as if Flynn could have possibly stopped Jiya from wrapping everyone around her little finger.

“We’re off to bed,” he says instead, and helps guide Lucy up to their room. “Long day. Jiya will fill you all in.”

“Yeah, me too,” Wyatt says.

“You need to fill out your report,” Denise starts.

“I got kidnapped, Wyatt rescued me, it was fine,” Flynn calls. He’s not in the mood for Denise’s bullshit right now.

“ _What_!?” Flynn wasn’t aware that Denise was capable of being that loud. Good on her.

“I rescued him,” Wyatt says. “It was fine.”

That’s the last thing Flynn hears before he closes the bedroom door behind himself and Lucy.

And then it’s just himself, the few secrets he has left to share, and Lucy.

 

* * *

 

_You’re going to betray him, and he’s going to die._

Emma can’t be telling the truth.

She can’t.

_You’re going to betray him._

She knows—from what Flynn told her, she knows that in his, their, her, someone’s original timeline, Flynn died. That the other her decided, rightfully, it was too high a price to pay for victory and went back to save him. Gave him the journal as a guide to keep him alive. She’s been bracing for that ever since, ready to do whatever it took to keep Flynn safe, but now…

_You’re going to betray him._

Emma’s lying. She has to be lying. That’s all Emma does is lie. She won’t—she’d never—

But how can she say that she wouldn’t when there are so many things she hasn’t told Flynn yet?

This was such a good week, too. A week of sleeping in and waking up to Flynn’s soft smile, a week of joint showers, a week of movie nights with Rufus and Wyatt, a week of just getting to _be_.

And now the fear is back, tenfold.

_You’re going to betray him._

She’s felt sick, sick all night, and she couldn’t even talk to Flynn properly, exactly, because they were in public and Jiya was supposed to be her girlfriend and Wyatt was right there and she has to tell him, she has to, because she would never betray him, she would never put anything else before him, she’d never turn her back on him—

Flynn closes the door carefully. “Lucy. What’s wrong? It’s been eating at you all day.”

She sits down on the bed—their bed, the one that’s officially big enough for both of them—and starts taking off her clothes. Not in a seductive way. She just wants to get into something more comfy, take the earrings and makeup off. “I’m… I have something to tell you. And… it’s going to be hard to talk about.”

Flynn nods, taking off his jacket. He looks damn good in his eyeliner and at any other time she’d jump him for wearing it, tell him to get her good and wet so she can fuck him—but she feels too scared and she promised, she promised him they would be better about talking.

She takes a deep breath. “I told… I told Jiya this. But. I realized—I was never, I’ve never been myself. I didn’t even try to be, as much as I should have. I never fought back. I had… I am… I had a girlfriend in college.”

Whatever Flynn’s expecting, it’s not that, because he stares at her for a full thirty seconds. “You had a girlfriend,” he repeats at last.

She nods. “Yes. Carine, that was her name. And… and I let her go because I knew my mom wouldn’t exactly… my mom wanted something different for me and I just let it happen.”

Flynn sits down next to her, takes her hand. “Lucy. Hey. It’s okay.”

“I’m shit at telling you things,” she whispers, and the world swims as her eyes get wet. “I didn’t even tell you—something like that. I mean… that’s a part of relationships, right? You talk about ex-boyfriends and stuff?”

“We don’t have a typical relationship.” Flynn squeezes her hand.

“I kissed Stormé Delarvarie,” she blurts out. “It didn’t—it didn’t mean anything, just a thank you, but for a moment I—I just had to tell—I had to show—that that’s a part of me, that I’m—”

Flynn pulls her in and kisses her hair. “Mary Fields kissed me on the cheek,” he admits, laughter in his voice. “Took me by surprise. It’s all right, Lucy.”

It’s not all right. _You’re going to betray him._ “But it’s just—who I am—”

“I never told you about Matej,” Flynn says quietly.

She pauses.

“He was, uh, we were… we were kids together. Fought in the Croatian army. I didn’t really know what he meant to me until it was too late.”

Her heart squeezes tight. “He died?”

“No.”

She knows that sometimes it’s almost worse, watching the person you love walk away. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Flynn rubs his hand slowly up and down her side. “I never told you. And you never told me. It’s easy. I think. To forget to mention it. And then there are all the questions that come with it. And with all that’s… going on… I just sort of forgot to bring it up. We had so many other things. But you don’t have to hide who you are, Lucy. It’s all right.”

 _You don’t have to hide who you are_. If only he knew all of what that meant. If only he really knew the rest of what she’s trying to tell him.

“I didn’t think you’d love me any less,” she tells him. She never thought—Flynn’s never—Flynn wouldn’t be angry over something like that, even if he wasn’t also—it’s the other thing, the secret that sits like a stone in her throat. Strangles her.

Flynn brushes her hair out of her face, tucks it behind her ear. “I thought you were being off today. I was… worried.”

“I feel bad,” she admits, “that I haven’t told Denise.”

“It’s your business who you tell. You don’t owe it to anyone, not even another member of the community.”

She nods, rests her head on his shoulder. She’s so tired. She wants to tell him about Emma but that would mean telling him about the truth of her blood, and she wouldn’t ever betray him but she’s so scared that she might by accident and she’s… she was so happy this week… so happy…

Flynn tucks two fingers under her chin, gently guiding her up to look at him. His other hand gently pets through her hair, working out the tangles. “It’s been a long day, hey? I’m exhausted. Let’s finish this in the morning. Get some coffee, curl up. We won today, that’s something to be glad about. And we’ll talk about it more when we’re not both about to fall asleep.”

That’s a smart idea. A good idea. She is tired, even if she’s not sure that sleep is going to come so easily. But for the conversation that needs to happen, that they need to have, they should both be more awake. Energized. She has a feeling it’ll be a long talk, after all.

And the last thing she wants is to end the day with Flynn angry at her.

_You have a good night, princess._

When Flynn kisses her goodnight, she’s sure her mouth tastes like guilt.


	22. 19 Charles Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Flynn—” Lucy grabs his sleeve as Rufus and Wyatt head toward the Lifeboat. 
> 
> “What’s wrong?” 
> 
> “I—” Flynn looks between her and the Lifeboat, and Lucy’s throat closes up. “I need to tell you—but it can wait, it’s fine. We should—we should go.”
> 
> Later, she thinks back to that moment. Later, she thinks back to the whole morning, to the last several weeks, to every what-if. She had so many opportunities, so many chances to tell him. And she didn’t. 
> 
> Not until it was too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You should all feel free to blame qqueenofhades for this. There was only so much I could do to fix it...I did my best? *passes out tissues*

Lucy wakes up ready. She does. She wakes up to Flynn pressed against her back, one arm slung across her waist, and she feels good, she feels rested, she feels ready.

She’s going to tell him. About her family, about Emma, about everything that she’s kept back. She’s going to tell him.

...after she showers off the rest of the glitter from Stonewall.

_Coward_ , her mind whispers as she gathers up her things and escapes to the bathroom. It shouldn’t be so difficult, dammit. She _wants_ to tell him. She wants to stop carrying her secrets around her neck, weighing her down like an albatross. She wants to stop keeping things from the man she loves. 

But Emma is in her head, her mother is in her head. _You’re going to betray him. And he’s going to die._

No. _No._ That won’t happen. She’s going to tell him. And he’s going to understand. He’ll understand. He’ll still love her. 

Her heritage will not be the thing that destroys them.

Lucy steps out of the shower and dithers for another moment, brushing her teeth and getting dressed. For a moment, she just stares at herself in the bathroom mirror as she grips the sink.

“I’m a direct descendant of David Rittenhouse,” she whispers to her reflection. She repeats it again a little louder, forcing the words past her teeth even though they feel as if they shred her throat like broken glass. 

Okay. Okay. She can do this. 

Except...when Lucy gets back to their bedroom, Flynn is gone. The knot in her chest tightens.

Flynn is in the kitchen with Rufus, Wyatt, and the rest of the team. He smiles when she walks in, brushes his fingers over her waist after passing her a cup of coffee, not breaking his conversation with Rufus. 

Later, then. They can talk more after breakfast. She can tell him then. It’ll be, what, an hour? She can wait another hour. It’s fine. 

“Are you okay?” Wyatt asks quietly. Lucy manages a tight smile and nods. 

“Headache,” she lies. “But it’s nothing.”

Under the table, Flynn’s hand falls to her knee and squeezes gently as he shoots her a concerned look. 

“Do you need anything?” He asks. 

Lucy swallows. “Can we—”

She’s interrupted by the alarm indicating a Mothership jump. Rufus jumps up and goes to the monitor, just starting to scroll through the data when the alarm goes off a second time. 

“Wait,” Jiya says, giving voice to what Lucy’s trying desperately not to think about. “Did they jump twice? Can they even do that?” 

“I’m not sure,” Rufus replies, his brow furrowing. “It’s showing up in two locations, on the same date. June 14, 1775. Philadelphia and London.”

Lucy’s stomach twists as the floor drops out from under her. Philadelphia, June 14, 1775? Oh God. No. No, no, no. That’s—that would mean—

“June 14, 1775, in Philadelphia, that’s in the middle of the Second Continental Congress. The thirteen colonies have just started the American Revolution. All the Founding Fathers will be there.” She looks at Flynn and Wyatt. Yeah, they might very well need all the firepower they can get. 

“I think we should take that one,” she suggests. 

She doesn’t pay much attention to the rest of the discussion. Something tickles at the back of her mind, a sense of foreboding that goes beyond the fact that Rittenhouse is interfering with the American Revolution. There’s something she’s missing, something else she should be thinking about, but she can’t quite put her finger on what. 

“Flynn—” Lucy grabs his sleeve as Rufus and Wyatt head toward the Lifeboat. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“I—” Flynn looks between her and the Lifeboat, and Lucy’s throat closes up. “I need to tell you—but it can wait, it’s fine. We should—we should go.”

Later, she thinks back to that moment. Later, she thinks back to the whole morning, to the last several weeks, to every what-if. She had so many opportunities, so many chances to tell him. And she didn’t. 

Not until it was too late.

* * *

There’s something wrong with Lucy. Flynn doesn’t know what, doesn’t know why, but he knows there’s something. He wants to pull her aside throughout the day, wants to ask her what’s going on. What did she want to tell him? What was she trying to say before they got in the Lifeboat?

But he doesn’t get a chance to ask. It’s only once they’re inside the Pennsylvania State House, once his eyes light on David Rittenhouse and he sees red, that everything falls to pieces faster than he can stop it. 

“Who’s that kid with them?” Wyatt asks. Flynn barely hears over the blood rushing in his ears. “Rittenhouse have another creepy child of the corn that he’s training up? Or—?”

“I could kill him too,” Flynn says. He almost managed it with John. This boy is older—a teenager—the thought still makes him sick but if he has to, if it would end this— 

“Garcia, you—listen—” It’s only then that he sees the look on Lucy’s face, stricken and pale. “if things have changed somehow, if that’s his son now instead of John—” 

“What? You’re going to stop me again?” 

Flynn takes a step towards Rittenhouse, but Lucy grabs his arm and whirls him around. 

“Garcia. Listen to me, you—it’s not even about the morality of it, it’s just—if that’s David’s son, you—you can’t kill him. Because—”

“Because why?” Flynn demands, his voice shaking. He’s too close to this. The memories of 1780 are overwhelming him, the struggle he went through when Lucy put herself between him and John. He’s practically vibrating with tension and he can’t—he can’t—

Lucy’s voice breaks and she closes her eyes for a moment, a tear slipping free. “Because I may—I may never be born if you do.”

That stops him in his tracks. Wyatt stills too, staring at Lucy with wide eyes. 

“What?”

Lucy clears her throat as her hand tightens on his sleeve. “David Rittenhouse is my—is my direct ancestor. My many-great grandfather. I learned it when my mother was holding me prisoner. Now that she’s dead, I’m the last—the last heir of the bloodline, at least in the present day. If you kill him and his son, my entire family—I wouldn’t—I would be...gone. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all this time. What I said I didn’t know how to say—I—Garcia, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

If that’s true, if she’s telling the truth, and Flynn has no reason to believe she would be lying, then that means—if he had killed Rittenhouse and his son—

Oh, Christ, he feels sick. He could have erased her from existence, the woman he loves. And he wouldn’t have been making an informed choice. He wouldn’t have even known what he was doing. 

Christ.

Flynn stares at her, numb as he pulls his arm from her grasp. He runs his hands over his face, opens his mouth—stops. What is he supposed to say? What is he supposed to do? He could have—he could have— 

“Garcia—” Lucy steps forward and he steps back, shaking his head. Temple is back in his head, whispering about how Lucy knew more than she was saying, about how she was using him. But no. No. Lucy didn’t lie to him. She wanted to tell him. She curled around him in their bed and she told him there were things she couldn’t say, that she wasn’t trying to manipulate him, but she just didn’t know how. She said that. She tried. 

But, Christ. _Christ._

What is he supposed to do now? He knew she was Rittenhouse by blood, but not like this. A direct descendant. 

He could have destroyed her. And it would have been too late. 

He can’t be here. He can’t breathe. He needs to think. 

Lucy is ashen. “I’m so sorry. Garcia, I’m so sorry. Sweetheart, I love you—I love you, _please_ —” She reaches out with both hands, but Flynn steps out of reach. Then without another word, he turns and runs out of the room.

He can’t.

He _can’t_.

Flynn hardly feels his feet as he races outside, but once he gets there, he doubles over, vomits into the dirt. He lost one woman he loves already. But this— _this_ —

Maybe Lucy would have been fine. Maybe she would have come back to find that she never existed, but still have been alive and healthy and safe. Maybe she even would have been okay with that. But they don’t know everything about time travel. What if he’d killed Rittenhouse and his son and bringing Lucy back to the present killed her? What if he lost her and it was his fault?

He couldn’t have lived with himself. He can’t even think about it. 

...but he has to go back. He’s here to protect her. And he left. He left her in a room with Rittenhouse.

Fuck.

_Fuck_.

Flynn wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, spits one last time into the dirt. Then he turns to go back inside, only to hear the beginnings of a commotion. 

_Lucy._

* * *

Lucy is numb after Flynn runs off. Even as Wyatt is wrenched away from her, as she’s dragged off by Washington and Rittenhouse and Temple. 

He’ll come back, right? He has to come back. 

_You’re going to betray him. And he’s going to die._

What if—what if this is—

No.

He has to come back. He has to.

He’s going to come back. 

Right?

Temple pulls a gun on her in front of his son and Lucy is reminded of Emma. Of Emma and her mother. Of France and that poor soldier she killed. 

Lessons for the younger generation. At least she can be glad that Timothy, young, sweet, Timothy Temple, seems horrified at the thought of killing her. At the thought of his father killing her.

He reminds her of her.

“Dad—Dad, please. Don’t shoot her, okay? Don’t shoot her.”

Temple shakes his head and shifts his finger on the trigger. “You shouldn’t be listening to her.”

“Timothy,” Lucy starts. “Timothy, I know what you’re going through, what you will go through. Any time you want to turn away – it can be done, all right? You could come with us, we’d protect you. If you just—”

Timothy goes pale and looks between her and his father. “What? I can’t leave my family. Especially if you are—Rittenhouse is a good thing, they want to help people, they want to—”

“No. No, they don’t. Do you really think this would be happening if so?”

Timothy looks so much younger than a college student in the moment. Lucy imagines that if she had been told about Rittenhouse earlier, the way her mother wanted, that she would have been a lot like him.

She doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not. 

“Look,” Timothy says, putting his hands up. “I’m sure this isn’t—”

At that moment, there’s a crash at the door. Temple whirls around to look, then back to her, pulling the trigger just as Timothy jumps—

Jumps in front of her. Takes the bullet. For her. 

And at that moment, Flynn crashes through the door. 

“Lucy!”

She starts toward him as he attacks Temple and is set upon by militiamen. But when Flynn throws them off, she steps back, not wanting to get in the way. Instead, she drops to her knees by Timothy. 

“Are you okay?” 

Timothy stares unseeing at the blood welling up from his shoulder. “He—my dad, he—I don’t know if he meant, he—I—”

What do you say to a kid who has just been shot by his own father? Lucy doesn’t think there’s anything. Instead, she just reaches out and strokes his hair.

“Shh. Shh, it’s okay.”

“Lucy!” Flynn calls, as he throws the last man off of him. “We’re going.”

“We can’t leave him!” She insists, gesturing to Timothy. Flynn’s jaw tenses as he looks between them. 

“He’s _Rittenhouse_ , Lucy. He’s going to grow up and keep doing everything they always—just like John—”

“He saved my life! We can’t just—Garcia. Garcia, I’m so sorry, I’m _so_ sorry. But please. _Please_.”

Their eyes lock and Lucy reads the agony in his gaze. They desperately, _desperately_ need to talk, but this is not the time or the place, and both of them know it. 

“We’re going,” Flynn repeats, and it’s clear that he doesn’t care if she takes Timothy or not, but if she’s going to then she needs to get him up now. 

They stumble out the door, down the hall, and Timothy looks back over his shoulder, clearly conflicted. 

“Miss, you can’t—my dad’s back there, I don’t know how to get back to the future if you—”

We have a machine, we’ll take you with us, we—”

Flynn makes a sound of impatience as he pushes open another door. “We already don’t have enough seats on this trip,” he hisses. “If you think we owe anything to some—”

“Garcia, _please_!” She cannot, will not cry, dammit. “You have every right to be pissed at me, but please—he’s a kid. What else can we do?”

Flynn’s jaw ticks again, but he sighs and pulls Timothy out of her grasp, slinging him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Lucy nearly sobs in relief. 

“They grabbed Wyatt earlier,” she tells him as they spill out of the building into a muddy alley. “They took him to the city jail. Did you see—do you—”

“I have no idea where he is,” Flynn replies. “Look, I’ll take the kid as far as the meadow where Rufus told us to wait, and then—then, I don’t know.”

“Garcia—David Rittenhouse—”

“I don’t want to talk about Rittenhouse.”

Lucy is about to say something else when they nearly run smack into Wyatt. 

“What the hell—?”

“Lucy said they took you,” Flynn says. Wyatt shrugs. 

“Come on, an eighteenth-century prison isn’t exactly Alcatraz. As soon as the guards left, it took me five minutes to get out. What’s going on? Who’s this? Flynn?”

Flynn pauses for a moment, then passes Timothy to Wyatt. “You take him. Go back to the meadow. Wait for Rufus.”

Lucy goes cold. “Flynn—Garcia—”

He stops with his back to her, then looks over his shoulder just long enough to catch her eyes. 

“I’m going after Temple.”

Temple. Not Rittenhouse. 

Oh. 

Lucy closes her eyes. “Garcia. It’s—it’s okay. You can—”

But, when she opens her eyes, he’s already gone. 

She follows Wyatt and Timothy to the meadow half in a trance. She does everything Wyatt tells her to in an attempt to stop Timothy’s bleeding, but the boy keeps getting more pale, his breathing more and more labored. He’s fading fast. 

They need to get him to an actual hospital. Lucy knows that. But Flynn—where is he? Is he okay? What if something happened, what if—

“Maybe I should go back,” Lucy suggests, pacing as she looks in the direction of the city. 

Wyatt sighs. “You know that would get you in more trouble. Lucy, this must be why Rittenhouse knew we were there to kill him in 1780. He did, remember? He shot Benedict Arnold because of it. Everything that happens five years from now, it’s because he remembers us, he knows we already tried this once, and if Flynn—”

“He’s _coming back_!”

No matter how pissed he is, he loves her, he _loves her_ , he wants to spend the rest of his life with her—

Or at least, he did. 

Suddenly, the night flashes and hums, and the Lifeboat appears, whirling to a halt a few yards away. Lucy stares at it in dread, as the door opens and Rufus leans out. 

They’re out of time. She’s out of time. 

And Flynn isn’t there. 

Even if he was, one of them would have to stay back anyway in order to take Timothy. She knows that even before Rufus says it once Wyatt hauls Timothy into the machine. 

“What happened?” Rufus asks. “Flynn wouldn’t just run off, I mean—he’s our friend now, right? We’ve trusted him? So what— 

“It’s my fault,” Lucy interrupts, unable to take her eyes away from the city, begging the universe to make Flynn appear. If they could just _talk_ , if she could explain— 

“Emma said this was going to happen. That I’d betray him. She has the journal, she knew about this. It’s true, everything she said. It’s true.” 

Wyatt calls out from the Lifeboat, his voice tinged with worry. “Guys, I’m serious, this kid isn’t doing well. If we’re going—” 

Rufus looks between Lucy and the Lifeboat, then grabs her hand and starts pulling her towards it. He’s stronger than she expects, managing to cover some ground even when she resists. 

“Rufus,” she begs. “Rufus, no, we can’t—I can’t—” 

“Lucy, come on, I promise, I’ll recharge and then come back and look, we just need to—” 

“Garcia!” Lucy shouts. “Garcia! _Garcia_!” 

Between the two of them, Rufus and Wyatt manage to get her into the Lifeboat, and the door closing feels like—feels like— 

It feels final. 


	23. 3.5 Million Volts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay,” Jiya says softly, off her silence. “But if you need me, I’m here. We’re here for you.”
> 
> She gets up and leaves, and Lucy buries her face into her pillow, and her chest heaves and she feels cold and empty and she hates, she hates, she hates herself.
> 
> If Flynn dies, it’s because she killed him.

Rufus has to drag her onto the Lifeboat.

She’s not sure when she stops screaming for Flynn. Probably sometime when the door closes.

Wyatt’s focused on Timothy, and she can tell he wants to reach out and help her somehow, although how he’d help she doesn’t even know, but Timothy’s face is white as a sheet and his breathing is labored and sickly and has she sacrificed Flynn for nothing? Has she sacrificed the love of her life for a boy who won’t even make it?

They get back to the new safe house and a very confused Mason and Jiya help Wyatt carry Timothy into the medical room so he can start, ah, operating. Lucy stumbles out of the Lifeboat on autopilot. “I should go with you,” she says.

“Um, all due respect, but… I don’t think so,” Rufus replies.

“And why the hell not?” she snaps.

Unless of course… Flynn is angry with her, or at least upset about the Rittenhouse thing and doesn’t want to see her because she’s a part of the Rittenhouse thing even if she doesn’t want to be, she is, she can’t escape it—this stupid, awful blood legacy that she didn’t even ask for…

“Because Denise will need to hear what happened from you,” Rufus replies. “Wyatt can’t really report right now and he was in jail for half of it. And it’s better if just one of us goes.”

She knows Rufus is right. And, well… it’s best if she… she just shouldn’t… it’s best not to risk Flynn not wanting to see her.

Doesn’t stop her from wanting to throw up when Rufus leaves in the Lifeboat without her. He has her heart in his hands, he has her soul in his hands, please, he has to get Flynn back, he has to. And she knows it’s selfish, she does, she knows that Rufus cares about Flynn, and so does Jiya, and so even does Wyatt in his own way. But it’s not the same, it’s just—it’s not the same at all, and she is so fucking terrified that she fucked up that she can hardly breathe.

She tells Denise what happened, as best she can. Denise doesn’t push, not when she can probably literally see Lucy spiraling as the walls close in around her.

Wyatt comes in, once he’s finished with Timothy. Lucy’s curled around a pillow on the bed, and she feels sick, and the walls are so thick and enveloping her, but she can’t leave, she can’t go outside. She has to be here for when Flynn gets back.

Wyatt sits gingerly on the edge of the bed. “Hey.”

She doesn’t say anything. It’s not just that there’s nothing to say, it’s that… she can’t say anything. She doesn’t have words right now. Just the walls closing in like a coffin and the tears sliding into the pillow, the one she feels ashamed for shedding.

“Can I get you anything?” Wyatt asks.

After she stays silent, he leaves, and she feels relief.

Ten minutes later Jiya comes in. Sits down, puts her hand on Lucy’s ankle. “Hey. Do you want to talk about it?”

Lucy clutches the pillow tighter. What’s to talk about? What’s to say? She messed up, she messed up so badly, she was a coward and she’s lost him, she’s lost Flynn, it’s been hours and he’s still not back and her own breath is choking her—

“Okay,” Jiya says softly, off her silence. “But if you need me, I’m here. We’re here for you.”

She gets up and leaves, and Lucy buries her face into her pillow, and her chest heaves and she feels cold and empty and she hates, she hates, she hates herself.

If Flynn dies, it’s because she killed him.

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t sleep.

Jiya tries to get her to eat. Tries to tell her that it’s okay, that none of them blame her. But she still should’ve told them. Especially Flynn. The fact that he at least knew there was something she was waiting to tell him is a small comfort. It’s been all night and he isn’t back and what does that say? What does that signal?

Time travel is fickle. They can leave and then come back landing only five minutes after they left. Or they can come back a day later. Who knows. It’s all up to Rufus’s piloting.

But that doesn’t stop her from worrying, wondering—

At this point she’s worried for Rufus, too. Worried that she’s set two men up because of her own cowardice.

It’s sometime after Jiya tries to get her to eat that she hears the telltale sounds of the Lifeboat approaching.

Lucy curls up on the bed, hugs the pillow. Prays.

There’s the sound of voices, but she doesn’t hear Flynn. Her heart is in her throat and yet, it also feels like it’s not beating at all. Is he—did he—

The bedroom door opens and Flynn enters.

She sits up, the pillow falling off the bed. Flynn looks a little worse for wear but he’s not shot, he’s okay, he’s—

Lucy jumps up, starts to move towards him… realizes that maybe she shouldn’t. Can’t.

Flynn shucks his coat, avoiding her gaze.

“Garcia?” she whispers. “Did you…”

“No.” His voice is short, rough, quiet. “Tried, but they’d posted guards. Left George Washington with a hell of headache but I didn’t get a hold of Temple.”

Lucy swallows. “Thank you. For not… thank you.”

Flynn finishes taking off his boots and looks over at her, his hair flopping into his face a bit, confusion deepening the lines on his face. “Why are you…” He seems to realize what she means. “…of course.”

He runs a hand through his hair, looking about as exhausted as Lucy feels—in a terrifying way, a soul-deep way. She could have a full stomach and a full night’s sleep and she’d still feel exhausted. This isn’t something that affects her body. “You didn’t lie to me,” he says at last. “You told me there was something that you were having a hard time talking about, and you asked me to be patient.” He looks at her. “That was what you were going to tell me, right before we went onto the Lifeboat, wasn’t it?”

She nods, sitting down on the bed, her hands clasping her knees tightly.

Flynn sighs. “I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—” He scrubs his hand across his face. “Lucy. _Draga._ ” It hurts her, stabs her, makes her heart ache, to hear him say her name, use that endearment. To hear that he still—despite what she’s done—to hear that he still loves her.

Maybe—maybe it’s time she stops doubting that. Maybe it’s time she stops holding her breath, waiting for the moment when his love ends. Maybe… maybe it won’t.

Flynn walks over, pausing before he gets close enough to touch her, the movement jerky, aborted. “I wouldn’t ever do anything to put you in danger.”

“Even if it means…” She pauses. “I’m still me. I’m still the same Lucy. Everything you know about me is still the same.”

“I don’t—” Flynn blows out a breath, like he’s forcing himself to stay steady. “I don’t know, sometimes, why you chose me. _You_ don’t know why you chose me. With the journal. Why you thought you could ask me—”

He turns away and that—that breaks something inside of her. She reaches out before she can stop herself, because she doesn’t know where the boundaries are right now but she knows she can’t lose him, can’t end this here, and she catches his fingers, holds on tight.

Flynn closes his eyes, and she can’t tell what he’s thinking, but he squeezes her hand.

“I should have told you,” she whispers. “I should have, and I was—I was so scared that you would see me differently. I know you said that nothing—but I couldn’t even face it about myself, how was I supposed to—how could I—my family has destroyed, since the beginning, they’ve destroyed lives. Including yours. They killed your family. My family did that. How could I…” She squeezes her eyes shut for a second because she doesn’t want to cry, she has to get through this. She has to say it all.

“I made you choose between—between saving your family and saving me and that was—I shouldn’t have asked that of you. And I don’t know who I was when I gave you the journal but asking so much of you while knowing who I was and where I came from—I shouldn’t have done that. And I didn’t know how I could—how I could say all that I wanted to, about how much I… how very much I love you and need you when I came from the thing you hated and when stopping Rittenhouse might mean somehow destroying me? Or at the very least when I would always be a liability?”

At that last Flynn turns and gapes at her, honestly looking disbelieving. He moves faster than she expects, pulling her into him as he manages to pivot slightly so that he could sit on the bed and keep her in his arms.

When he speaks, it’s into her hair, his hands warm at her back, between her shoulder blades, his voice warm but rough and cracking. “Lucy you—you’re not—this isn’t a game of who’s more deserving, here. All right? We can save the people we love, and that doesn’t mean that we have to choose.”

She snorts. “You don’t really believe that.”

“I do.” Flynn’s tone hardens with conviction and she pulls back to see that whatever doubts were in his face before, they’ve fled. “Lucy… you shouldn’t have had to carry this alone the whole time.”

“I couldn’t burden—”

“It’s not a burden, _moja ljubav_. It’s called sharing a life.”

…does he still really want to do that with her? After all she’s put him through? Can he truly want that? “I’m sorry. I’m so—I don’t know what else to say.”

She pulls back, looking up into his face. “Other than… I’m glad you’re safe.” She reaches up, taking his face in her hands. “I thought—I was worried you’d—if I’d lost you because of how stupid I was, how selfish I was, _Garcia_ —”

He takes her wrists in his hands, turns his face, kisses her palms. “Hey. This isn’t easy. None of this is. I needed—I needed time, I needed to get away and think, and I was angry and I wanted to end all of this. You were in pain, and so was I, and I wanted to stop it and do whatever it took along the way. I still do. But if anything had happened to me—you are never allowed to blame yourself, if something happens to me, all right _moja srećo_?”

“What’s that one mean?”

Flynn flashes a small smile at her. “My luck.”

She grins and blushes in spite of herself, because it makes her melt. He makes her melt. God, she would tear down timelines for him. “Now you’re just sassing me.”

“But it got you to smile.”

Oh, she just has to kiss him after that.

She pushes herself up and Flynn makes a small, surprised noise against her mouth, but he kisses back, oh he kisses back, he’s alive and safe and he doesn’t hate her and he kisses her back.

“Are you sure?” she whispers. “Are you sure you aren’t—that you don’t—” The words tumble over and over each other in her mind. _Are you sure you don’t want to use me to get your family back, are you sure you can trust me, are you sure you should forgive me, are you sure…_

Flynn kisses her, pulling her fully into his lap, and she has to catch a hold of his jacket to keep her balance. “Lucy. I’ve always been sure about you.”

She clings to him, not caring that she’s so transparent, only wanting to hold him close and keep him that way. She thought that he was dead, she’d been terrified, she’d been losing hope, and now he’s here and he doesn’t hate her…

Lucy kisses him, and kisses him, she wants to feel that he’s alive—but then she pulls back.

Flynn looks wrecked, his eyes still closed, his face flushed, his hair messed up by her fingers running through it. “Garcia?”

He opens his eyes and looks at her and oh, oh she could drown in him. She wants to drown. “Yes?”

“Is there anything else we need to—do we need to talk more?”

Flynn considers that. He slides a lock of her hair around his finger, idly kisses her shoulder. “I feared that—that I was giving up on Lorena and Iris, by not going after Rittenhouse. And I still don’t know if I am or not. If I need to let them go or not. But Lucy, I am not choosing them or you. I won’t—I won’t let you think that you’re second place or that you’re forcing me to make a choice. I love you. That doesn’t come with conditions.”

“I was so scared you’d died,” she blurts out, the words whispered but heavy, so heavy. “I thought I’d killed you, and I couldn’t—” She kisses him again, again, in between words, and Flynn is the most patient man in the world so he lets her. “—I love you so much, you’re my—” She stumbled over the word at the last moment. “—and I’m—I’m sorry, and you’re _alive_ and I’m sorry—”

“Apology accepted.” Flynn’s voice is a soothing rumble against her chest, against her lips. “Any time you’d like to stop blaming yourself, Lucy, that’ll be fine by me.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” she replies, but it comes out too soft for it to be a proper rebuttal. God, it’s probably so inappropriate but she wants his hands on her, she wants to touch him everywhere, she wants to feel he’s alive.

“Are we seriously doing this?” Flynn sounds terribly amused. She fruitlessly tugs at his shirt. He’s still wearing his late 18th century garb and while he looks incredibly dashing in it, it isn’t conducive to easy undressing, especially while kissing.

“Having ‘yay you’re not dead sex’?” she asks. “Yes, yes I think we are.”

Getting Flynn undressed is an exercise in frustration (for her) and amusement (for him), but she manages it with only a bit of cursing because she’s determined, damn it.

They’re not quite—it’s not lighthearted entirely. There’s an edge of desperation to her movements that she can’t quite shake. Her fingers tremble as she undoes Flynn’s pants and she tugs at his shirt harder than necessary to get it open. She is relieved, so very relieved that he does not hate her. She feels his love like a blanket and she never wants to let it go, but neither can she shake the fact that she could have lost him last night.

By now, Flynn understands what she needs, what she wants. He covers her with his body, brackets her in, lets her feel the weight of him. She can tell that he wants to pull away, to slide down between her legs and set his mouth on her as he so loves to do, his tongue working her until she melts and normally she wouldn’t deny him that—she loves it, of course she does, loves how he makes her feel cherished and worshipped—but she doesn’t feel worthy of it today. She doesn’t feel she’s earned his worship, this morning.

She clings to him instead, grips the back of his thigh, his ass, guiding him as he thrusts into her, until it feels as though he’s making the very room shake, and she wants that, wants the walls and the earth to remember them joined like this.

Flynn is determined for her to feel good, no matter how much she wants to play the martyr, and his mouth roams all over her skin, latching onto her neck, her breast, sucking the moans from her mouth, his fingers dipping between them to find her clit and send her spiraling.

He seems rather content to just kiss her afterwards, but Lucy’s not finished with him yet. She’ll never be finished with him, never, but tonight—tonight she needs yet more proof that he’s here. She gently pushes at his chest, guiding him into turning over, reversing their positions, and she kisses him everywhere she can reach, leaving quite a few marks, pleased with the trail they lead down his neck to his shoulder to his abs to his hip bone, and then she takes him in her mouth and has a fun time slowly working him back up again.

Flynn’s cursing quietly under his breath the whole time, his hands in her hair, and when she pulls away and guides him inside of her his eyes are glassy and he’s staring at her in that way that sets her heart racing and it has nothing to do with the raunchy physical activity they’re engaging in.

She bends down and he pushes up and they meet in the middle, the kiss deep, so deep she can feel it in her bones. “No more secrets,” she promises. She will be good, good, good from now on, she will be so good, she will be so honest it hurts. “I promise, I promise, you have all of me, I’m still me, I promise—”

Flynn wraps his arms around her and lets her roll her hips and have her wicked way with him and kisses the tears off her cheeks and her lips and is generally far, far too good for her.

He murmurs to her in Croatian, and she understands none of it, or at least not ninety percent of it. Sometimes she catches onto a word she knows, an endearment, but it doesn’t really matter. His tone is wrecked, as though he is not hurting but rather hurts for her, and doesn’t that just break her heart all over again.

Afterwards, she lays on his chest, hears his heartbeat. It’s so steady and strong. It feels almost impossible that his heart should ever stop, when he seems so firm, immoveable, like a rock. But when an immoveable object is thrown against an unstoppable force, the result is usually destruction for both. And Lucy would rather not see that happen. Not to him.

“Garcia?” she whispers.

“If you’re going to apologize again…” he rumbles, supposedly in amusement, but he sounds genuinely concerned that she might be.

“I just wanted—I wanted you to know that if you ever do feel…” she swallows. She will burn the world down for him. He holds her soul. Sometimes she thinks he is her soul. “If you ever feel that you have to choose, I want you to know—Lorena and Iris deserve to live. So if you…”

Flynn moves faster than she can even register, kissing her ferociously. “ _Lucy_.” He takes her face in his hand, his fingers wrapping around the back of her head, cradling her. “I once told you, if you had to choose between myself or Amy—and you asked me what kind of choice that was. You can’t force me to make the same choice if you won’t make it yourself. We will get them back. We will.” He tenderly, so tenderly, tucks her hair behind her ear. His gaze roams over her face as if each inch of it is known to him, is beloved to him. “But I couldn’t make that choice any more than you could.”

“I just want you to be happy,” she admits. “I don’t think I can make you—I haven’t been making you happy I just—”

“You do, _draga_.” He rests their foreheads together. “You are the _source_ of my happiness. Understand?”

Lucy isn’t sure that she does. She accepts it, she has to, because he has said so, but she’s not sure she understands.

Flynn kisses her gently. “Sleep,” he tells her. He draws her back down into his chest, into his arms, his fingers twining through her hair. “You need rest.”

She doesn’t think that she could possibly sleep. She feels too drained for that, oddly enough. And yet, with his heartbeat under her ear, she does.

Until the alarm goes off.

 

* * *

 

Flynn’s excited to be meeting Tesla, don’t get him wrong.

All right, maybe _excited_ is a bit of an understatement. He is thrilled, elated, a complete fanboy.

But he does wish it was under better circumstances.

Lucy is still tense. He’s forgiven her. He’s not going to say that it still doesn’t rattle him, to know what he might have done, what he almost did. And it stings, just a little, to know that she was so scared of the truth that she couldn’t even share it with him.

But the moment she told him that she’d stolen his family from him, turned him away from them, a deep and ferocious anger had broken free inside of him and he’d wanted to somehow turn the fury on himself for thinking for even a moment that he has to be placed at such crossroads. He was starting to let go of Lorena and Iris all the way back in Roanoke. Lucy didn’t do that. He’s not sure if he’s giving up on them, not yet, even as the possibility looms ever-farther on the horizon but it’s not Lucy’s fault, and Lorena, at least, would smack him for thinking that it was a betrayal to save the life of another person. Especially the life of someone he loves.

Flynn’s forgiven Lucy. Was more shocked than angry in the first place, and even then, more angry with himself than anything else.

But Lucy, he can tell, has yet to forgive herself.

He sees it in the way she puts herself in Tesla’s machine without so much as a second thought. The terror he feels, seeing her in that—his hands shake as he helps her afterwards. He sees it in how Rufus practically drags her from the scene yet again when they are confronted with Emma.

He sees it in the way she seems ashamed to meet his gaze.

Flynn had once thought his biggest obstacle was getting himself to believe that Lucy loves him. Now, it seems, it’s convincing her that his love is truly unconditional. They’ve found each other through time. There is something to that. And he’ll do it all over again if he has to.

They climb into the Lifeboat, the day somewhat saved, or disaster at least forestalled another day, and Lucy lets him buckle her in.

Flynn can’t resist—he tries not to show too much public affection, to spare Rufus at least—but he can’t resist right now and he gently tucks back a lock of errant hair, trails his fingertips down her cheek. Lucy turns her face into his touch, catches his wrist in her hand, the fine bones of her fingers curling around his one solid, thicker arm bone and there’s something to that, he thinks.

When they get home, he thinks, he’ll stick her in the shower, give her a massage, wash her hair. Fix them something to eat and they’ll pop a movie on. It’ll be nice and quiet. He’ll build her back up.

He buckles himself in and Wyatt finally manages to get his own seatbelt untangled and Rufus hits the levers—

And something goes terribly, horribly wrong.

They lurch to a stop, all of them paler than usual and sweating, and Wyatt looks like he might throw up.

They get the door open, and start to stumble out, only to realize—they are very much not in the right place.

Or even the right time.

Lucy’s fingers dig into his arm as they stare… at her Other.

Future Lucy.

And she stares right back at them and says, “you can’t be here.”

…fuck.


	24. HeLa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She avoids Garcia. Or, she tries to at least. 
> 
> It’s better that way. At least, it should be. He is not her Garcia and she is not his Lucy and those facts could be the beginning and end of everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're baaaaaaaaack...

“You can’t be here,” Lucy repeats. And she is Lucy— _a_ Lucy Preston anyway, even if she feels less than solid facing down a mirror image of her team, half of them ghosts in her memory now. 

It’s not right.

It’s not _right_ , and she’s not sure whether to laugh or cry or scream at seeing Rufus alive again, at seeing _Garcia_ —

She shakes herself out of it, tries to pull herself together—physically, if she must—crossing her arms over her chest like armor as she tells them to go, as she watches the Lifeboat start up only to die.

_Fuck_. 

It’s not right, they _can’t_ be—

Rufus is...easier at least. Elation wins over grief as she hugs him, feels him warm and breathing and beautifully, achingly _alive_ against her body. 

She can hardly bear to even look at Garcia. It’s like looking directly at the sun—too bright, too painful to hold it. Leaving to get Jiya is as much to allow her the chance to see the man she loves again as it is about stealing a moment to breathe. 

Oh, god. _He_ can’t—

When Lucy comes back, when she looks at him again, she hears her own screams in her head. Her legs don’t feel enough to hold her under the weight of guilt and grief and desperate longing. 

“Where are the rest of us?” The other Lucy—younger Lucy, the Lucy with a chance—asks.

The urge to laugh, bitter and hysterical bubbles up, but she swallows it back. 

“This is everyone.”

They both look to Garcia, her other’s face pale and drawn, lips pressed together, and Lucy realizes—oh. She knows. 

Maybe that’s better. Maybe she can save him. Maybe they can save each other. 

If nothing else, it means there’s less to lie about. And Lucy is so tired of lying. 

(Of lying, of living...but she has to see it through, has to make sure these versions of them all succeed where she failed. If the fates exist, she is Atropos—hard and inflexible, cutting string after string after string and praying they’re the right ones to cut.)

And so, she stops lying altogether. 

“Come with me,” she says instead, and pours out the entire twisted, tangled story.

“In my sophomore year of college, I had a car accident. Garcia Flynn saved my life. Jumped in and pulled me out…”

The memories wash over her, painful and real. 

_”Are you all right?”_

_”F-fine.”_

She was so young then. And so was he. 

“Then you lost him.”

_”No! Garcia—Garcia!”_

“Yes.” Lucy can barely hear herself speak over the screams in her head, can’t see her other self around the image of blood blooming across Garcia’s chest, his knees buckling underneath him.

“But we saved Rufus and stopped Emma from getting what she wanted from Tesla,” her doppleganger says. “Does that mean we’ll never lose Flynn? That we’re safe?”

The desperation in her voice is clear. Lucy can tell what’s really underneath it. 

_Tell me it’ll be different this time. Tell me he’ll live._

But there are some promises that are not hers to make. 

“I don’t know,” she replies. “It happened in different circumstances for us. If you succeed, yours will become the only timeline, and you have to. You don’t want this. You don’t want ours. This is the reality where we fought as hard as we could, but our friends all died, and Rittenhouse won. But right now – it’s all up in the air. Nothing has been decided. You could save everything, or lose it all.”

The other Lucy swallows hard and scrubs at her eyes, blowing out a shaky breath.

“I can’t lose him,” she whispers. “I can’t lose anyone else, really, but especially not—”

“You love him.” Somehow, it doesn’t hurt as much to say as Lucy expects it to. After all, this Garcia is not _her_ Garcia. No matter how much she may wish it. 

“Does he know?” A nod. “That’s good. My Garcia—he didn’t always know. We wasted so much time.”

“He told me. About what happened when you gave him the journal.”

_”I’m sorry.”_

_”Lucy…”_

Lucy looks away. “I shouldn’t have done it,” she replies. “It was selfish. Unfair—”

“You loved him,” the other woman interrupts. Her eyes are kind. “There are worse things.”

Lucy swipes at her eyes and clears her throat. She feels about a thousand years old, the weight of too many timelines on her shoulders. But perhaps that weight is slightly lighter than it was.

“Hold onto them, Lucy,” she says. “All of them. Hold on and don’t let go.”

It’s all she can think of to say.

* * *

She avoids Garcia. Or, she tries to at least. 

It’s better that way. At least, it should be. He is not her Garcia and she is not his Lucy and those facts could be the beginning and end of everything. 

But of course, time travel makes everything complicated, doesn’t it? And so the fact that he isn’t hers, that doesn’t mean much. Not when it’s her fault he’s in this. Not when she bought his cooperation with sweet promises and lies by ommission. 

Even if she hadn’t meant to. Even if she hadn’t known what she could safely put in the journal and what she couldn’t. 

She could have left it to chance, could have left Garcia in Sao Paulo to decide for himself whether to pursue Rittenhouse and how. But instead she wrote the journal. She found him, gave it to him, changed the course of his life. 

Changed him. 

Whatever sins he’s committed as a result are hers—not his, not the other Lucy’s. Hers. However he chooses to look at her now...well. That’s his right. And no less than she deserves. 

(But, that doesn’t mean she’s prepared for it. So perhaps in a way, her avoidance has more of cowardice in it than grief alone.)

Finally, though, Lucy does seek him out.

When her foot hits a stray rock, Garcia whips around, and both of them freeze. 

God. _God_. 

He looks exhausted, as if he’s been to hell and back in the span of only a few days, and his eyes shutter when he registers that it’s her. Lucy tries not to let that blow ache as much as it wants to. 

“I suppose I should say it’s good to see you again,” he says, after the silence stretches on. “We didn’t have much chance to talk the last time you were in town. But then, you never _said_ much to me, did you?”

That does land, and Lucy flinches despite her best efforts. A few snarky words are the least of what she deserves from him, but that doesn’t make it easier to hear. That doesn’t make it easier to meet his eyes when he’s looking at her with so much betrayal. 

“Garcia, you know it’s complicated.”

“Did he know?” Garcia asks. “Your Flynn—did he know you were related to Rittenhouse?”

Lucy swallows and looks away. “Yes.”

He mutters something under his breath that she doesn’t quite catch.

“I understand why she didn’t tell me. But you couldn’t have put that in the journal? What, did you think it would stop me from doing your dirty work if I knew?”

“It was always a balancing act to decide what to include and what to leave out. I wrote it for a specific purpose, yes. Because we risked everything to give us all another chance. You were that chance.”

“I was that tool. That puppet.” 

“ _No_ ,” Lucy insists. It feels like glass in her throat. Speaking to him, looking at him, facing this reckoning that must have been a long time coming for him—she can hardly stand it. But if nothing else, she needs him to know that. “Not to me.”

It’s not an apology. But then, there is no way to apologize. There’s no way to make up for what she’s done, what he’s been through because of her. The only thing she can do is try to explain, however inadequate that is as a remedy. 

Lucy looks away from him as the conversation twists from bitterness into simpler resignation. Across the way, her gaze lights on the other Lucy. This Garcia’s Lucy. 

_You love him. Does he know?_

“Forgive her, Garcia,” she says quietly. “Please. Be angry at me, if you have to. Everything I put you through. At least I knew. It’s not an excuse, and you don’t have to absolve her, but…”

Garcia shakes his head, and for a moment Lucy misunderstands, her heart twisting in her chest.

“I’ve already forgiven her everything there is to forgive,” he replies. “She’s the one who needs to forgive herself. And—”

He breaks off, rubbing a hand across his chin. He clears his throat and seems to consider something for a moment before his shoulders straighten and he looks back to her again.

“And so do you,” he finishes. “For losing him. For everything with me. For all of it.”

A muffled sob escapes her even as she tries to bite it back. Garcia brings a hand up as if to touch her shoulder, but stops, uncertain, before he makes contact. 

Lucy’s grateful—if he touched her, she’s fairly certain she would shatter. 

“Lucy—”

They’re interrupted by the sound of Rufus shouting. 

“Come on—come on!”

And just like that, she knows it’s over. These ghosts have their own timeline, their own lives to return to. She cannot keep them. 

Lucy watches as Garcia helps her other self into the Lifeboat, watches the casually intimate way his hand brushes her waist as he pulls away, watches the way she smiles gratefully back at him, love shining in her eyes even as they’re cloudy with exhaustion. 

Oh. Her heart squeezes painfully again, but it’s almost a good pain. The kind that reminds her why she’s still alive. 

_Let them be happy_ , she prays, to whatever higher power may be listening. _Let them live. Let it all have been worth it._

“Are you all right?” Jiya asks, when the Lifeboat vanishes. 

Lucy swallows hard.

“No,” she admits. “But...yes.”

The other woman nods. “Do you think they’ll make it?”

“I hope so. I really hope so.”

* * *

Flynn has a bad feeling about the jump the moment it starts. A chill spikes through him the moment they land, the kind of feeling his grandmother used to say was caused by someone walking over your grave. 

Call it a premonition, but he just knows. 

Perhaps some things can’t be changed. In some ways, he’s been living on borrowed time for years—he narrowly escaped Rittenhouse when they killed his family, he narrowly escaped a different death when Lucy came to him with the journal. And of course, one of the things she was trying to do to begin with was save him. 

But maybe he was always meant to die in this fight. 

He feels it, as he charges into Emma. As he tastes blood in his mouth from a split lip and shouts at Lucy and Wyatt to get to the Lifeboat. It’s strange—he’s not afraid of it. 

Flynn gets in a lucky shot with Emma and turns to see Lucy on the Lifeboat steps. He can tell the moment she realizes, her face twisting in despair, head shaking in denial before he even starts to speak. 

“Get out of here,” he says. “I’ll hold her off and delay her as long as I can, I’ll give you time. You have to get the journal and the cells back. You have to make sure that no matter what happens, Rufus is saved. Everything else doesn’t matter. I’m sorry. I hope one day you can forgive me.”

“Garcia— _no_ —”

“I love you.”

If he has the chance to choose his last words to her...they should be those ones.

Flynn kisses her before she can argue, kisses her with everything in him, every fiber of his very soul. And then, he pulls away, lifts her into the Lifeboat, and slams the door shut behind her.

_I’m so sorry, my love._

_Forgive me._


	25. São Paulo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re not leaving him!” she shouts, and her voice is shaking, furious, raw. She knows she sounds like a lunatic. “We are not!” And yet.

Flynn doesn’t take the deal.

He knows the Devil when he sees him, and Temple is not him. Temple wishes he could be him. And if Flynn is going to sell his soul—not that he’s not entirely sure he hasn’t already sold it at some point, God knows he’s come close to it a few times, outright tried to, and maybe he did, maybe the moment Lucy walked up to him in São Paulo he signed on the dotted line—then he’s not giving it away for anyone less.

He doesn’t take the deal. And he knows what that means. He can’t help but wonder, even as he sasses Temple up one side and down the other, if this was how he was lost in the first Lucy’s timeline. If they have tried to change things, if she risked everything, only for him to end up back in the same spot once again. He wonders if this is always going to be his fate, and if there are some things that are truly universal constants.

Flynn doesn’t take the deal.

He got to tell her, one last time, he got to tell her a hundred times, he got to kiss her and hold her and she’s so in his veins it’s like she owns more of his body than he does. What’s that poem? _I am not here. I did not die._ He cannot die, because he’s in Lucy, and she’s in him, and at the end of the day he can’t take the deal because there’s nothing of him left to deal with.

He gave every last piece of it to her.

Flynn doesn’t take the deal.

 

* * *

 

“Rittenhouse has him,” Jiya says, and Lucy already knew that. She knew that the moment the door closed and Rufus took off again and for the second time in as many days she’s had to be whisked away through quantum space while the man she loves stays behind.

There is a theory that says the universe is expanding, and that at some point, it will begin to shrink again, and become so small it will crash together and result in another Big Bang, and it will expand once again—the process like that of stretching a rubber band, only spread out over billions of years.

Perhaps that is how she and Flynn work. Crashing together and creating something new out of it, something beautiful, only to be thrust apart again, fighting and fighting and finally crashing back together, separated, together, again and again, so on through time and space and into the spread of eternity.

No.

No, she won’t let that be her fate. She doesn’t believe in fate. She never has, nothing is set. _Find what it is you’re fighting for,_ Wyatt told her once, _and you’ll be okay_.

Wyatt’s said a lot of shit in the time she’s known him and he’s not exactly always had the best opinions, but he was right in that.

“Where is he?” Lucy asks, because she will get him back. No offense to herself from the other timeline but she is not going to be the one to lose Flynn. She will find a way to fix this, fix all of this. She will harness the threads of time herself and rip them apart, reknit them in a new order, so that he lives.

Wyatt is worried about the timeline. So is Rufus. So is everyone. But she is not letting him die. “We’re not leaving him!” she shouts, and her voice is shaking, furious, raw. She knows she sounds like a lunatic. “We are not!” And yet.

 _We’re going to have kids together!_ She nearly screams at all of them. _We’re going to get married, and we’re going to have two children, and I want to be sure to name one of them Maria, we planned this, we planned it, so it has to happen. It’s going to happen! We’re going to be together and we’re going to be happy!_

She feels like she’s railing against a hurricane.

“I’ll try to see anything else about where he is,” Jiya says.

It’s the best she can ask for. Lucy looks down at her journal. Her other’s journal. The one she’s been wondering about for over a year now.

Flynn’s told her a few things. But not everything. There wasn’t exactly ever time for them to sit down and spend hours as he tried to recall every single thing she put down in these well-worn pages.

By the time she’s finished, she knows what they have to do. Her head aches, a dull, throbbing pulse, but it’s not enough to make her rest. There is (oh, irony, a dark and familiar shadow by now) not enough time to rest. There never is, but when it comes to Flynn, she doesn’t resent the lack of it. Once upon a time, Denise named her the leader of the time team. So that’s what she’s going to do. She has a plan, she’s going to lead them, she’s going to go back to the one place she can and hit that reset button one last time. She’s not going to do what she did last time, which was be fucking cryptic in the journal out of some, what, irrational fear of spoilers?

No. She’s spoiling the finale, and she’s giving Flynn whatever he needs because he will survive, he _will_ , she’ll make it happen.

They’re jumping again.

To São Paulo.

* * *

 

_Pain._

Her head hurts, and it’s such a simple statement, but it really doesn’t even begin to convey the depth of it. She _hurts_ all over in a way she never has before. It blinds her. Her ears are ringing. She doesn’t feel like gravity is working quite the way that it should.

“If Flynn doesn’t get the journal now,” Jiya says, “Rittenhouse wins.”

Lucy knows that she should be more confident about this. This is the man she loves, for God’s sake, the man she’s been in an intimate relationship with for a year, the man she’s pledged her life to just as he’s pledged his.

But Flynn doesn’t know that yet.

Here, in 2014, she’s just another random face. And she’s going to ask him to do the impossible.

What if she was wrong to ask that of him? What if she’s been selfish, drawing him into this, taking all this for herself?

What if it’s best to leave him be?

They say that love is letting someone leave you, if that’s what they want. Is that not what she should do now?

It’s not just about her, or him, though. God forbid it ever be just about the two of them and their relationship. Oh no. It’s also about saving the literal world, and she has to take that into consideration.

“All right,” she says, and she’d be lying if she said that she was only doing this for nobility, for the world. It’s because of course Rufus always knows what to say.

_What if we go back and he’s dead?_

She’s doing this to save the man she loves. And if the world gets saved in the process, well, isn’t that pleasant.

The bar where he’s at is filthy and dark. She hates it, hates it because it’s not the kind of place Flynn would go to if he was anywhere close to being in his right mind. He would go somewhere warm and friendly, where the bartenders knew him, where he could smile and crack jokes. Not this place, this place where people come to drown their sorrows and forget.

But oh, God, even here, even now, he’s the best goddamn thing she’s ever seen.

Flynn knows it. Knows it before she blurts it out in the street, desperate to answer his questions, desperate to explain, desperate to save him.

He’s always read her so well, sometimes even better than she’s read herself. “Because I love you,” she says, and he takes it in like it’s a confirmation, a hypothesis proven.

“We can’t quite define it,” she tells him. “I don’t know that we ever will. We say that we love each other and we do, it’s not that we don’t say it, or feel it, but it’s… it’s so much more than that. The things you’ve done for me—I don’t know if I deserve them, Garcia, I really don’t. But I can’t lose you too. I can’t lose you and survive. You don’t have to forgive me for this. What I’m asking of you is awful. But I’m down there somewhere too, in the darkness, and if—if that’s worth anything—I hope it is, because I can’t watch you die again. I’m not asking for you to love me back this time, or at all, I’m not asking for that, I’m just asking—please.”

Flynn looks down at the journal. “I’m supposed to read it.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll see each other again?” He looks back up at her.

She swears she can feel her heart break. The gravity of the world is still wrong. “You’ll see me.” Someone’s got her heart in a vice and is squeezing, claws ripping in… “I—I don’t know if I’ll see you.”

He’s staring at her like she’s managed to peel back the skin of her chest and show him the raw, aching pulse of her blood, the tremulous fluttering of her lungs. “All right.”

He puts the journal in his pocket and nods at her, somewhat awkwardly, somewhat like a knight receiving orders, and starts to move off.

She can’t watch him walk away. She’s weak, she’s _weak_ , she can’t watch him walk away.

“Get in the Lifeboat. Please.”

Flynn turns around. It’s only when he stares at her that she realizes she’s crying. How long has she been doing that?

She asks him to come home, and he doesn’t. She doesn’t ask him to shoot Emma, to kill her, but he does. He saves her, and she condemns him, and so their dance plays out.

_I’ll be seeing you. Lucy._

But will she be seeing him? The Big Bang, the expansion, the air in her lungs, gravity—wrong, all of it wrong, and she might throw up. Her legs are giving out on her as she climbs into the Lifeboat, and she hopes—

She wishes the universe could stay in just once place long enough for her to find some footing.

 

* * *

 

Flynn’s not sure what the whole commotion is about. There’s the sound of the… the Lifeboat? What?

He opens his eyes and finds that Lucy is no longer in bed with him. How she wriggled out without him knowing it, when she was very firmly wrapped around him like a barnacle just a couple hours ago, he doesn’t know.

It’s not the Mothership jumping. He’d hear the alarm if it was. They’re all conditioned by now to wake up to that almost the second before it actually happens.

So what, exactly, is going on here?

He gets out into the main room just as Lucy pulls away from hugging Wyatt. “Could the circus possibly keep it down? Some of us are trying to sleep.”

Lucy stares at him, and he notes that she’s blinking very hard, deliberately, like she’s making sure he’s here. He’s see her do it a few times before, on tough missions where they had a shave that was too close for anyone’s comfort.

Okay, he’s definitely missed something.

But then Lucy runs to him—sprints, flies—and he instinctively catches her, hauls her close to him. Holds her steady as she lets out a sob.

“You’re real,” she whispers. He’s scooped her up off the ground without thought, as is typical for their hugs when there’s a foot of height difference involved and he’s got a girlfriend who likes to try and tackle him, so now Lucy’s of a height where she can kiss his neck softly. Her hands bunch in his shirt, her nails digging into his shoulders. “I love you, I love you, I love you so much—”

It’s like she thought she’d never get to say it again. Flynn gently sets her down. “I love you too,” he replies without thinking, because he never has to think about saying that. It’s stamped in the very soul of him. “But—”

Lucy is gently shoved out of the way with an “incoming” and then Jiya is hugging him fiercely.

“Did you all get body snatched!?” Flynn asks. He hugs her back as well, although he spares Jiya the lifting up. Only Lucy gets hugged like that.

“Just—just let us have this,” Jiya says, sounding half-cranky but also half-fucking-terrified. “We’ll explain later, all right?”

Rufus hugs him next. “Yup, still terrifying. It’s good to have you back, buddy.”

“Well, that would have required me to leave in the first place, but I’l take your word for it.”

The moment Rufus steps away Lucy is back at his side, arms wound around him like an octopus, and she stays that way for the entire breakfast. When Timothy comes in and they need space for him, Lucy just climbs right into Flynn’s lap. He wraps an arm around her waist to anchor her as she reaches for more butter, the sweet strawberry scent of her hair catching him.

She told him about that. About Robert Johnson, and their car ride. That was part of how she convinced him to believe her.

Well, that and…

He’d had no idea what to do with the woman who stared at him like he was her entire world. Like it was actively twisting a knife inside of her to leave him.

He hadn’t loved her in that moment. But he had wondered, with the desperation of the damned, what he could have possibly done to get her to look at him like that.

It kept him up at nights, haunted him when he started to lose faith—and he hopes that she knows, he looks at her just the same, now. Like she could plunge a dagger in his chest and he’d thank her for it.

“So Rittenhouse is finished,” someone says, possibly Wyatt, but Flynn’s not listening. He’s staring at Lucy, Lucy sitting in his lap, Lucy who is buttering her toast with one hand because the other one is still fisted in his shirt like he might choose to disappear on her at the last second.

 _Rittenhouse is finished_.

Everyone contemplates what that means. Rufus and Jiya, apparently, take that as the signal to announce their engagement. “I have to do it properly, though.” “Last minute proposals just before certain death in a time machine count, Rufus, you don’t have to do it ‘properly’.” That starts off an argument on the bullshit institution of marriage (or is it bullshit? Jury is heavily divided, it seems, at least at this table) but Flynn… Flynn doesn’t hear a word of it.

Rittenhouse is finished, and that means he and Lucy have promises to keep.

 

* * *

 

_One Month Later_

 

Flynn appreciates the diner that Rufus picks for them to meet at. He’s happy to listen to wedding plans. And he genuinely hopes that Wyatt finds Jess and finds some peace, a sense of his self. Wyatt needs that. He needs an identity that isn’t wrapped around a romantic prospect.

“What about you?” Rufus asks, and the moment comes.

And this—this is the moment he’s been dreading.

Because he doesn’t know. He’s been so busy with Denise working everything out, paperwork, clearing his name, and all of them have had to try and pick up the pieces of their former lives. Lucy’s been clearing out her old house, arranging for Carol’s absentee funeral, filing death certificates, the whole nine yards. They’ve barely had time to talk. And yet all Flynn can think about are the things they’ve whispered to each other across safe houses, across time, in a Lifeboat in Montana, in a bed in a bunker.

_I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want two kids. I want to be with you._

Does it all still hold? Now that they’re in the harsh light of the mundane?

It holds for him. And he hopes it holds for Lucy.

Christ, they should’ve talked about this beforehand. They’ve been meaning to. But it wasn’t easy when everything else was demanding attention first, when there’ve been deadlines upon deadlines.

The question is directed at Flynn, but Lucy is the one who speaks. “I’m not sure,” she says. “I think I’d like to do some traveling. Take an honest breather before I settle back into life. I’m selling Mom’s house. It doesn’t fit me anymore.”

She looks at him on the tail end of this, and he hears what she isn’t saying. “I was thinking of doing some traveling, too,” he says.

Her hand finds his under the table and squeezes, and this is the farthest thing from what he was thinking when he shot a threatening redheaded woman for her, when he stole a time machine, when he got down on his knees in a hotel in 19th century Chicago.

He’s so goddamn grateful for that.

“I’m open to all possibilities right now,” Lucy says, and she’s still answering Rufus but she’s looking at Flynn and this is the kind of love that aches like a battle scar but it’s okay, because Lucy’s eyes shine that same ache right back at him. They have since São Paulo.

Rufus raises his glass, and his eyebrows. “To possibilities,” he says.

They all toast. “To possibilities.”

He keeps staring at Lucy, the woman who was down there in the darkness, and it took him to the bottom to get there but he’s so glad he did. He followed her whispers, followed her journal, followed _her_ , and he was scared of it leading to madness but now it sounds like something else entirely.

Especially because Lucy is staring right back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is at last, the end! Only a year after first discussing it! We are truly efficient people who stick to schedules. Thank you all for your comments and enthusiasm!


End file.
